Vengeance Quest
by Sounasha
Summary: When a wolverine slays her father, Riala Goldentail sets off on a quest for vengeance that will lead her through pain and hardship, companionship won and lost, and eventually to the final confrontation... (R for mild sexual content in chapters 12, 14, 16)
1. Birth of a Hatred

Vengeance Quest 

Chapter One: Birth of a Hatred

            The cheery call of a whippoorwill, a warbler's tune, leaves rustling in the near-silent breeze – it was a fine spring day in the woods of the Northern Mountains.  The sun shone down from its blue bed, filtering through the thin green leaves of the treetops and turning everything warm with green and gold light.

            There was a flash of red-brown in the limbs of a thick oak as the tops of the branches swayed with the passing of a young squirrel.  She stopped abruptly and doubled back, creeping along one sturdy branch on tip-paw, her rust-gold tail flicking about for balance.  Once on the immobile trunk, the fox squirrel took off at top speed.

            She nearly fell out of the oak as a footpaw was thrust before her, and a tall, grinning squirrel stepped into sight from behind a branch. "You're still too noisy, Riala," the muscular squirrel reprimanded, leaning against a branch casually.  A broadsword was slung across his back in a rough leather sheath, with only the leather-wrapped hilt and green pommel visible where it protruded from the scabbard.  His mottled green and brown tunic blended in with the leaves and trunk, and the squirrel's walnut-brown fur aided in the camouflaging.  It was no wonder the energetic youngster hadn't seen him.

            "I _try _to be quiet, Father…" Riala Goldentail protested, gold-brown eyes sincere as she hopped restlessly from footpaw to footpaw.  Her tunic was the same as her father's, and in her belt was a short, thick, dark brown hardwood stick.  A long cord was attached to it and coiled on her belt for easy retrieval.

            "It takes practice," Rilar Battlecry agreed, ruffling the young squirrel's fur.  She scowled with all the self-consciousness of youth.

            "_Fa-_ther…" she complained, ducking her head and scampering out of reach.  "_Quit _it!"

            He laughed and performed a flip with the grace and agility few creatures other than squirrels had, landing in front of Riala. "Come, come, Goldentail… Here, I've got something for you." She followed her father as he moved silently down the tree, claws making barely a sound on the rough bark.  The younger woodlander envied the adult squirrel's ability to keep silent as he walked easily through the foliage to a small clearing.  A wooden house had been built at the fringe of the trees and disguised beneath a sprawling pine.

            "Drey, sweet drey," Rilar said with a lopsided grin, ducking into the house.  Riala followed, curious, tail twitching.  The warrior strode to the cabinet that held items from his days as a soldier, reached in, and pulled something out.  When he turned, the squirrelmaid could see that he held in his paws a naked dagger.  Its hilt was plain wood, darkened to a fine sheen with use, but the blade was sharp and well-kempt.

            "It's a good knife – don't let its looks deceive you," the squirrel told his daughter, handing the dagger to her hilt-first.  She took hold of it carefully, testing the balance- which was quite good- and then accepted the sheath her father handed to her.  She tucked the dagger inside the sheath, and then hooked the sheath on her belt.

            "But… why give this to me now?" the young squirrel asked in confusion.

            A shadow crossed Rilar's face, his mouth pressed into a grim, tight line.  He turned and walked slowly to a chair, stared at it for a moment, and then sat down slowly.  His brow was furrowed in a frown, his face pained, as he tried to decide whether or not to tell his young daughter of the danger that marched through the forest, of the poisonous shadow that stole through the trees even as they spoke.

            The forest fell silent, hushed by the shadowy bringers-of-death that stole through the woods on silent paws.  Here the sunlight, filtering through the leaves, flashed on a drawn sword; there it gleamed off of the red-brown eye of a weasel.  The drey was not difficult for the expert band of assassins to find.  Weasel, ferret, and fox archers melted into the undergrowth around the home, while only a single ferret, dressed in a dark green cloak fixed by a mouse's skull, strode near the side of a tall, lithe wolverine.

            Flat, red-irised eyes looked over the hidden drey with a chilling mixture of anticipation and hatred, their depths not concealing a hunger for blood.  Long, white, sharpened claws – overly long, even for a wolverine – tipped callused paws, one of which rested on a curved scimitar.  The other fingered a bone whistle that hung around the wolverine's neck, the slender leather cord invisible under a mane of thick black fur.

            The vermin chief rubbed his claws on the soft black cloth of his tunic, watching the drey.  Rilar was sure to have seen him by now.  Soon the vile wolverine would issue his challenge.

            Rilar ran a nervous paw through his fur, not quite sure how to start.  He decided on a simple sentence, voice flat and angry- not at Riala, but at the vermin who had caused him so much grief.

            "Nightdeath Longclaws is in Mossflower."

            The squirrelmaid fingered her stick, the weapon she called a roce, as she tried to put a face with the name _Longclaws_.  Finally she shrugged, light-brown eyes still bewildered. "Who's that?"

            "The most evil vermin to set paw on goodbeast soil," Rilar growled, fist clenched. "He killed somebeast- very dear to me."

            "So why don't we just stay hidden?" his daughter inquired, all childlike innocence.

            The squirrel regarded the youngster, sadness and wistfulness and guilt a maelstrom of emotions within him.  He could scarcely remember when he'd been without the hardness to vermin screams and pain and blood- could barely recollect being without the fierce drive to kill that came with vengeance.  He could barely remember being innocent- and young.  The warrior looked down at his callused paws, soaked with the blood of so many lives.  When had the pity and guilt been replaced by hard unfeeling?

            When his family had been killed by the wolverine.

            That was it, surely.  His reluctance to slay had been fading even before, but what innocence there was had been torn away when the Longclaws killed his family and took many of his tribe as slaves.  That innocence was replaced by a burning hatred and an all-consuming desire for revenge.  It was a desire that only his love for his now-deceased wife, and then his golden-tailed daughter, had softened… but now, with the reemergence of Nightdeath Longclaws, that vengeance-lust had flared back up in full fury.

            "Because I cannot let him kill any others," Rilar said finally, "and I cannot let him go unpunished for what he did."

            The young squirrel nodded slowly, still not sure that she understood. "So you'll fight him."

            "Yes."

            There was a long silence from Riala. "And you'll win?"

            It was half statement, half fearful question. "I don't know, Ria." He shook his head, paws clenched.  If he lost, Riala would be without anybeast to protect her.  Was it selfish of him to fight the Longclaws, and maybe die?

            "You'll win." It had the assurance of a child's unwavering belief in her father, but the squirrelmaid was fast approaching the end of her childhood.  Her eyes held fear for the warrior.

            A sharp shout from outside the drey brought Rilar to his footpaws, one paw going to the hilt of his broadsword, strapped across his back.

            "Rilar Battlecry!  I challenge you to a duel!"

            The squirrel warrior's eyes narrowed as he walked to the window and saw the wolverine as he took off his glove and slowly, deliberately tossed it to the ground in a gesture of challenge. "Longclaws," Rilar growled.

            He turned to Riala. "Go up- out the ceiling exit.  Hide yourself in the trees and whatever happens, _don't let him know you're there!  _Go!"

            Fear and worry was plain on the young squirrel's face, but she complied, scampering up the walls of the drey and out through a trap door in the ceiling.  Rilar waited until her golden tail was no longer visible, then stepped outside, battlelight in his eyes.  The wolverine smiled- a poisonous, wicked smirk of anticipation- as he saw Rilar walk out of the drey, pushing the low pine branches out of his path.

The squirrel's sword slid from its sheath with the ominous hiss of steel on leather, and he flipped the glove into the air, catching it contemptuously. "I accept your challenge, Longclaws," the warrior said quietly, sliding into a fighting stance, blade held steady before him.

            The wolverine chuckled, drawing his black-hilted scimitar. "Are you ready to die like your family died, Battlecry?  Or should I take you as a slave like I did your friends?"

            Rilar's teeth bared in fury, and he tensed to spring, but then relaxed, shaking his head with a harsh, mirthless laugh. "Anger never won any fights, softclaws.  Shall we fight or throw insults?"

            "By all means- fight!" the wolverine hissed, darting forward with a sharp slice of his scimitar.  Quick as sunlight, the squirrel's sword whirled up to block it, steel on steel filling the clearing with its bell-like clang.

            In the tall pine, Riala Goldentail watched nervously, worried and yet caught up in the blur of flashing swords.  Neither squirrel nor wolverine could seem to get the better of the other.  They were very evenly matched, and both were soon sweating heavily from the furious fight.  Suddenly Rilar tripped, nearly falling to the ground, and Nightfyre sliced in with a cruel smile on his face.  The squirrel rolled, driving upward with his blade, slicing into the wolverine's left thigh and then springing up with all the speed and agility of his species.  He closed in again, hacking and slicing into the wolverine's flesh.  The Longclaws blocked a side thrust from the squirrel, then twisted, his sword biting into Rilar's arm.  They traded blow for blow after that, but it was becoming clear that the warrior squirrel was winning the battle. 

Nightdeath growled three short times, and his ferret guard blew on a bone whistle.  It was obviously a signal.  Riala froze, frightened, as Nightdeath and Rilar stood watching each other.  The Longclaws was smiling triumphantly, while the squirrel was crouched in a wary stance.

"Game over, Battlecry," the wolverine said smugly.

There was the twang of bowstrings from all around the clearing, and Rilar jerked from the blows of so many black fletched arrows.

Someone was screaming, yelling denial, shrieking the word _"No!" _over and over.  Riala realized it was she as a hoarse shout rose from the dying, arrow-riddled squirrel on the ground. "Riala!  Run!"  Somehow he could still yell with arrows protruding from his body.  She tried to run, but her numb limbs wouldn't obey.  The clearing fell absolutely silent, every head turned toward the pine Riala hid in.  It was so quiet that the squirrelmaid could hear the rattling exhale of her father, could see his eyes glaze over as he breathed his last.

The cold, triumphant smile was still on Nightdeath's face.  He motioned toward the tree. "Fire."

Riala ran as the hiss and whistle of passing arrows rang in her ears.

It was three days before Riala could bring herself to return to the clearing.  Her father's body still lay on the ground, flies buzzing over the odorous corpse.  The squirrelmaid shouted to drive them off, running over to him and sending the insects flying.  She blanched at the sight of the stiffened corpse that was once her father, rage growing in her heart as she stared.  Her heart was empty; she felt that a part of her had died with her father, leaving her dry of tears.

She remembered her father's words as she stood there, anger burning in her heart and soul and mind, misting her eyes red. _"I cannot let him go unpunished for what he did."  _She hadn't understood then- hadn't known the fires of revenge that burned within and killed care and innocence and fueled a hatred towards the one who had taken her father's life. She hadn't known the broiling hatred toward the one who'd taken away her father and her joy and childhood and carefree happiness.

Nightdeath Longclaws would pay.

Riala stood just outside a ring of sand and stones, watching the lumber from her dismantled drey burn in the center with her father's body.  She repositioned the pack on her shoulder, staring at the embers of the pyre as it burned to ash.  The squirrelmaid pushed sand over the fire, and then stacked stones until they covered the sand and ash.  Her father's grave.

Anger flashed again- she was growing used to the fierce fury, even welcoming it.  She fueled the hatred with thoughts of Nightdeath's treachery, Rilar's unnecessary death, the cruelty and evil of the Longclaws.  The fury and anger and hatred rose, her breathing growing faster and faster with the intense bloodlust, and she suddenly pulled her stick from her belt.

"_RILAAAAAAR!" _she screamed, throwing the weapon end-over-end with anger-driven force.  The stick hit a slender tree with a loud _thunk _that echoed throughout the clearing.  A sharp jerk on the cord attached to the weapon sent it flying back toward her.

            "I'm ready, Longclaws," Riala growled, catching the roce with the ease of practice. "Do not rest.  _I will slay you!"_

_            "_RIIILAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR!"

            The next day, the squirrel was walking slowly down a wide, much-used path, following the tracks of the Longclaws' band, vengeance the one thing on her mind.  She was not filled with the bloodwrath, however, and her senses were alert.

            Riala's keen ears swiveled at the rustle of leaves in the woods nearby, and she tensed, roce in paw immediately.  Light brown eyes, just recently carefree with a childlike innocence, now hard and calculating, searched the trees.  She heard the twang of a bowstring and threw herself sideways to the ground, hearing the whistle of an arrow passing by just where she'd been standing.  Her searching gaze caught movement in the brush, and she threw her stick.  It struck the archer with a solid _thunk, _and there was the snap of bones and a scream of pain.  She'd hit his arm.  Smiling thinly, the squirrel retrieved her roce and dashed into the woods, searching for the archer.  Out of the shadows, a dagger sliced her throwing paw, though not deeply.  She hissed in pain, whirling with her roce, but it struck nothing but air.  A weasel grinned at her through the shadows, a knife in his paw.  One arm hung limply at his side.

            "You'll pay for that, missy," the vermin snarled.  Riala blocked the dagger thrust with her stick, the blade making barely a mark on the hard wood.  She drew her own knife, driving it into the weasel's stomach and upward into his chest.  He stared at her, blood spurting from his wound, the expression on his face the picture of disbelief.  Then he gurgled from the blood coming up his throat and fell, lifeless, as the horrified squirrelmaid unsheathed her dagger from his heart.  Blood drenched her paws and dagger, and flecks of it were on her tunic.  She stared, stunned, at the bloody corpse at her feet.

            "What did I do?" she whispered.

            _I killed.  He was living, breathing, thinking… and I killed him.  _But then her shocked thoughts went to her father, and then to Nightdeath, and her paw tightened on the dagger. _Can't trust vermin.  Longclaws killed Father… and so there's no reason not to kill murderers.  It's justice.  _So reconciled, Riala hardened herself against the grisly sight of the dead weasel.  Whatever shreds of childhood innocence or tenderness that might have still clung to her heart now stripped away, she moved on.

Chapter Two: The North Caves

            Season followed season.  Riala stayed on the trail of the Longclaws' horde the entire time, helping goodbeasts and fighting vermin.  As she gained more experience, her skill with her roce and dagger grew.  The squirrel had followed Nightdeath west through the cold, thinly forested northern sector of Mossflower, and was gaining quite the reputation in that area.

            The warrioress was traveling at a brisk pace through the treetops, hearing but not really noticing the noise of forest life.  She suddenly halted, motionless, ears straining for a noise as the heavy silence fell upon her awareness.  There was no sound save the wind rustling dry autumn leaves.  Something was wrong.  _Something _had frightened the birds and the insects into rare silence…  Riala realized what it was when a harsh, whining voice grated against her ears.

"Gimme that food blinkeye!"

Her gold-brown eyes darkened, and she crept silently through the trees, dropping lightly to the ground in order to walk more quietly.  She eased her stick out of her belt and grasped the coil of rope in her free paw.  A mole's rustic accent drifted to her tufted ears, and she followed the sounds of the argument to a mound of earth with a door at one end.  Nearby, a brook gurgled on its merry way to larger bodies of water, silvery forms flashing within its depths.

"Good decision, mole," a weasel's nasal voice sneered. "Now stand right quiet so's we c'n put these chains on you four."

_Slavers!  _Riala's eyes narrowed dangerously as she ran a short circuit around the clearing's edge to check for hidden guards.  She found none, and she turned her attention back to the mole home.  It was not large- no more than two or three vermin could fit in with a mole family.  Slavers were rarely expert fighters.  She could take them without too much trouble if she had the element of surprise…

The squirrel paused, thinking on her options, and then took up a position outside the door.  When they came out, she'd be waiting.  There was the _clink _of chains, and the _swish-thwack _of a whip.  A mole grunted in pain, and Riala's paw tightened on her roce, jaw set. _Vermin, _she growled mentally, all her hatred packed into that one word.

"Move on, let's go, outside!" the weasel ordered.  Another whiplash, and this time it was the scream of a dibbun that reached the waiting squirrel's ears.  Her muscles tensed, quivering with fury at the cruelty of the slavers.  The door opened, and a weasel calmly strode out, his whip twitching like a live snake from his paw.

Riala's paw shot out, and she grabbed his muzzle, pulling him back.  Her dagger slit his throat, and he died without a sound. A chained adult mole came through the door, and he stifled a cry of shock and fright when he saw the squirrel.  Her teeth were bared, her eyes misted in red, and blood dripped from her dagger.  The dead weasel was slumped on the ground, shoved out of the way.

"Move," the squirrel hissed. "Stay quiet!" He nodded shakily, walking forward.

_Swish-thwack!  _A whip snaked out, striking a struggling molebabe across the shoulders.  She shrieked, back arced in pain.  The lash struck the father mole across the face as he turned to help his daughter.

It was too much for Riala, who was already teetering on the verge of bloodwrath.  "_Rilaaaar!" _The battle-cry ripped from her throat, and she raced into the hut, leaping over the heads of the mole family and striking the slaver in the chest with her footpaws.  His breath left him with an audible whoosh of air as he fell, and the enraged squirrel raised her roce to strike.

"Mercy!  Don't kill me!" the weasel yelped, fear widening his eyes and strangling his voice to a squeak.

"Not in fron' of th' dibbuns, please, miz!" the molewife pleaded.

Slowly the warrior's muscles relaxed and the red mist of near-berserk fury  faded from her eyes. "Ye're right," Riala hissed to the weasel, her normally imperceptible northern accent growing stronger with her fury. "Death's tae good for ye.  I should chain ye oop an' use yon lash on _ye _until ye've noo a scrap o' fur on your back.  Then-"

"No, please!  I won't never go near a whip agin!" he squealed.

"Like I believe that!"Riala growled scornfully, her rage and accent beginning to abate. "Where's your keys?"

            A little later, the weasel was in chains and the mole family was freed.  The molewife, whose name was Soilfree, worked at bandaging the wounds of her husband and dibbuns.  Riala set to work cleaning and honing her dagger, sending occasionally dark looks at the quivering weasel.

            "Thankee koindly, miz," Durtfloyer, the father, said to the squirrel.

            "Riala Goldentail," the warrior told him, not looking up from her blade.

            "Then… thankee, miz Ri'la," the mole corrected himself.

            Their whip wounds bandaged, the two molebabes, Soilfloyer and Durtfree, came up to the squirrel and gazed at her with curiosity.

            "Yurr, 'ow'd you'm get so gudd at foightin', miz?" Durtfree inquired.

            "Hurr!  You'm taked yon vurmint oot wunnerfully!" Soilfloyer added, wonder on her face.

            Riala sheathed her dagger and dropped her whetstone in the pouch at her side that had long replaced the cumbersome backpack.  She leaned forward, looking at the two seriously. "I became a fighter through practice and necessity.  It's not a bad idea to _learn _how to fight, but take my advice- don't be a warrior for a living.  Grow up, raise a family, live a life of peace… but fight only when you have to.  A warrior's life is not as glamorous as some say."

            "Then whoi do _you _be a wurryer, miz Ri'la?" Durtfree asked, confusion plain on his young features.

            The squirrel looked away. "You wouldn't understand." Her voice was flat, her expression hard as stone as she spoke her reply.

            "Mebbe we would," the molebabes' mother objected quietly. "Whoi do you be a wurrior?

            "Because I have to!" The four words exploded from her mouth, almost a cry against the question and the memories it brought to the surface.  She stood and walked swiftly away, gold-brown eyes holding grief though her face was stone.

            Soilfree was a perceptive mole, and she saw the shadows in Riala's eyes.  She gathered her children to her. "Burr, toime for bed, dibbuns," she said, hustling them away. "Cumm yurr!"

            She returned minutes later to find Riala savagely sharpening her dagger. "Miz Ri'la?"  The squirrel did not answer, did not seem to hear anything besides the fey voices of her past.  The molewife placed a comforting digging claw on the warrior's shoulder.  Wiry muscles tensed, then relaxed as Riala sheathed her dagger.

            "Yes, Soilfree?" the squirrel asked.

            "Somethin' bothers ye," the mole said. "Whoi _are _you'm a wurrior?"

            The squirrel rose with a sigh, walking over to the wall where the weasel huddled, footpaws making no sound on the earthen floor. "A wolverine, Nightdeath Longclaws by name, killed my father," she said finally, flatly. "Four seasons back.  They were dueling, and my father was winning… until the Longclaws signaled with three short growls.  His ferret, fox… _and weasel _archers shot from the bushes.  Nobeast can dodge that many arrows."

            She glared down at the quivering slaver coldly. "I vowed revenge."

            "I didn't kill y'r pater!" the weasel whimpered in protest.

            "No," Riala growled. "You just flog dibbuns." She touched the weasel's whip that was coiled in her belt, lowering her voice so that her hissed words reached only his ears. "When we're beyond earshot of this place, I'm going to use this!"

            The squirrel turned to Soilfree as the slaver fainted dead away. "It's time for me to leave."

            The molewife nodded. "Would you'm loike summ vittlers?"

            The warrior shook her head. "I can get all the food I need from the woods." She turned to the weasel again and dragged at his chains, pulling him upright and forcing him to consciousness. "Let's go," she growled.  The slaver whimpered, but had no choice other than to obey.

            They were soon out of earshot of the mole home.  Riala slowly uncoiled the whip, face expressionless. "You'll tell me what I need to know," she told him. "And if I think you're lying, I'll give you a few lashings to get the truth out of you.  If I find you've played me false, you'll feel my dagger in your gut."

            He gulped, eyes wide with fear. "I – I thought woodlanders 'ave _honor!" _the slaver protested.

            She smiled, but the expression was a cold one, with hatred blazing behind it. "What honor I had was killed with my father seasons ago," the squirrel replied harshly. "Now get moving towards your slaver camp."

            Uncertainty flickered in the weasel's eyes, but he soon replied. "Don't 'ave one."

            _Swish!  Thwack!  _The whip fell across his back with all of Riala's force behind it.  He arched his back and screamed in pain, but the squirrel's face might have been stone for all the expression it showed. "I wasn't bluffing, slaver," she hissed. "Where's your camp?"

            He gulped air with the beginnings of a sob in his throat. "I said – I don't 'ave one!"

            The whip fell twice; the weasel shrieked twice. "Don't lie to me!" the squirrel snarled. "You were taking the moles as slaves.  Slave bands have more than two slavers, and more than a few slaves!" He hesitated, balking, and then arched his back again with the lash of the whip.  Riala held his neck chain taught to keep him from collapsing.

            "I'll tell!" the vermin choked out past the confining iron. "I'll tell!"

            The warrior dropped the chain and he fell to the ground, sobbing for breath, gagging on his own phlegm. "You'd better, vermin," she growled, hatred thick in her tone. "By Dark Forest's gates – you'd better!"

            With the threat of the lash behind him, the weasel- whose name was Darkeye- wasted no time in showing Riala the location of his band.  They were on a small ridge overlooking a cliff riddled with caves.  The squirrel remembered tales of the caves, once the Caves of Luke, as that was the mouse leader at one time… but that was long ago.  Now they were simply named the North Caves.

            She looked at the weasel and deliberately slid her knife out of its sheath, steel scraping on scabbard with an ominous hiss. "Tell them to drop their weapons," she said, referring to the four vermin lounging about a campfire. "And try to sound natural."

            Darkeye swallowed hard as the newly sharpened dagger pricked his jugular.  He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a call that easily reached the slavers' ears. "Hallo the camp!  What're you doin' loungin' about?"

            The slavers leapt up hastily, guilt clear on their grimy faces. "Erm, er, nothin' sir!" one weasel stammered.

            Another elbowed him sharply. "Wot Ragfur means, sir, is that we was guardin' th' camp!"

            A third nodded eagerly. "Wot Thintail said!"

            Darkeye grimaced. "Drop yore weapons," he ordered. "Throw 'em my way, but don't hit me."

            Several assorted weapons landed in the dust before the squirrel and her prisoner with a metallic clatter.  Darkeye stared at the equipment in mingled disbelief and disgust. "Surely yore smarter'n t'throw yore weapons away!" the weasel muttered, momentarily forgetting his predicament in his disgust.

            "Enough banter," Riala hissed, her dagger still touching his neck. "Step into view.  _Slowly."_

            The slavers gaped in shock when their leader walked forwards, chained and bleeding from several whip-marks.  Their eyes went from the weasel to the golden-tailed squirrel that held him captive, widening in surprise and shocked recognition.  They'd heard the tales of the merciless squirrel and her hunger for vermin lives…

            "Goldentail!" Thintail gasped. "_Here?"_

"Quit your whining and free the slaves, or your leader dies," Riala growled, ignoring their shock. They nodded as one and hurriedly unchained the ten wretched slaves, some with broken spirits, others with hearts filled with hatred for the slavers, and some just glad to be free.  Slowly the slaves walked towards the squirrel, their freedom still not quite sinking in.

            "Pick up a weapon, each of you, and check the slavers for hidden weapons and keys," Riala told them. "Chain them up so they can't escape."

            Faces grim, the ex-slaves followed her orders eagerly, being none too gentle in their handling of those who were once their masters.  A young hedgehog, barely older than the molebabes Riala had recently aided, looked at Darkeye's bleeding back with cold brown eyes.

            "You did that to him?" he asked.  She nodded silently.  The hedgehog's face was stone as his gaze went from the squirrel to the weasel. "Good," he said flatly.

            _And I thought warriors grew up quickly, _the squirrel thought, watching the ex-slave. _Slaves grow up faster, and turn out harder…_

Soon the slavers were chained securely.  Riala tossed her borrowed whip to the ground. "Are all of you staying here?" she asked.

            They looked from the whip to the slavers.  One ex-slave, a half-grown badger, stepped forwards and picked up the lash. "We've unfinished business," he rumbled. "The slavers would capture more if we let them live."

            The squirrel nodded, no expression on her scarred features. "I understand." She turned and walked down towards the North Caves, the screams of slavers getting their due echoing in her ears.

            The caves seemed empty, but on closer scrutiny it was obvious that somebeasts had left in a hurry.  Sand had been tossed over still-warm embers, and scraps of cloth could be found on the rocks.  Riala's paw tightened on her roce as she looked at the signs of a hasty exit, and then glanced about the rocks.

            _Ssss-thunk!_

A gray-fletched arrow landed at her footpaws, and the squirrel jumped, twisting backwards and landing behind a large rock. "I thought goodbeasts inhabited these caves!" she shouted angrily.

            "They do," a voice said mildly behind her.  The warrior whirled, releasing her short throwing club from instinct and reflex, but jerking on the cord as she saw that the speaker was a dark brown mouse.  The stick halted in mid-air and fell back towards Riala from the yank on its cord that had jerked it short.

            "Don't _do _that!" the squirrel gasped, picking up the weapon and coiling the rope. "I could have killed you!"

            He was slightly shaken, but concealed his shock quickly. "You're right, treejumper.  I shouldn't sneak up on warriors.  I ought to know that, being one myself." The stocky, muscular mouse stuck out a callused paw. "Welcome to the North Caves.  I'm Mark the Warrior.  I apologize for the hostility, but vermin were sighted nearby earlier today, and we can't be too careful."

            She nodded and shook the proffered paw, noting the strong grip of a swordsbeast. "I'm Riala Goldentail – not 'treejumper,'" the squirrel said mildly.

            The mouse arched one eyebrow. "My apologies, Goldentail."

            Gold-brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Do you _try _to annoy otherbeasts?  I dislike formalities, Mark – can I call you Mark?  Or would you prefer Warrior?"

            "All right, all right, you've made your point!" Mark raised his paws in mock surrender. "Riala, then?  Is that better?"

            She glared at him a moment longer, but had to laugh at the good-natured mouse's actions. "Much."

            Dinner was a leisurely affair.  The group of North Cave warriors laughed and chatted as they ate the seafood that made up most of their diet.  When the meal dwindled to crumbs and the clatter of wood utensils on shell bowls subsided, they began to tell stories.  One told of the time he'd infiltrated a ship disguised as a searat.  Another told of how he'd tricked two rats into fighting one another.  Riala noted that all the tales were humorous ones of trickery and wit, none of war and death and losing friends or family.  All the warriors skirted that subject carefully, none wanting to spoil the good mood.

            Finally one warriormaid, a wiry black mouse, turned to the golden-tailed squirrel. "And what of you, Riala Goldentail?" she called. "Does the traveler have a tale to tell?"

            The squirrel's face hardened, and when she again spoke, her voice carried the frost of the harsh northern winters in its chilling tone. "I'm afraid you'd find none of my stories very humorous."

            The collected warriorbeasts- all scarred, fit, competent creatures- wore grim faces of understanding. "No need to worry," a burly otter rumbled. "We've used up all our light stories by now.  Might as well learn a bit about a newcomer."

            Riala nodded and slowly stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor.  Her voice rose and fell as she told her story; her eyes filled with pain and then hardened with cold hatred as the tale progressed.  She told of her father, the Longclaws' treachery, her first kill.  She spoke of following Nightdeath, helping the mole family, and freeing the slaves.

 "…and now my journey leads here," she ended.  Suddenly very tired from the emotional draining of her tale and the physical stress she'd been through in the past day, the squirrel sank wearily into her seat.  The warriors were silent for a few moments as they digested the story- silent until Mark stood and nodded grimly to Riala.

"A tale that mirrors the ones many of us have," he said, jaw tight with a still-painful memory. "Yet it's better not to dwell on such things … It's getting late.  We'd best turn in."

A murmur of "ayes" swept through the room, and there was a noisy clatter as the group pushed back their chairs and rose from their seats.  Chatter gradually filled the air, replacing the stifling, uncomfortable silence.  Mark turned to Riala, studying her for a moment as if deciding whether or not she should hear what he had to say.  Finally he gave an almost imperceptible nod. "The wolverine you seek has passed by here, but as he did not interfere with us, we did not bother him.  He went south and west."

The squirrel's grim features remained immobile, but the gratitude in gold-brown eyes was enough for the northern warrior.  He nodded to her again and turned, starting for the door, only to be intercepted by an out-of-breath scout bursting through the entrance.

"Searats!  It's the _Blacktooth, _sir!  They're comin' to attack!" he gasped, a paw pressed to his heaving side as he tried to regain his wind.

Dismay mingled with a harsh anger in Mark's face.  It was an ever-present hatred that Riala recognized all too well – one she saw every time she looked into a mirror.  "The _Blacktooth!  _Are you certain?  Captain Deathclaw's ship?" When he spoke the name Deathclaw, Mark's fury seemed to intensify, causing the messenger to flinch away from the naked hatred in the mouse leader's dark brown eyes.

"Yessir!  I recognized the black sails at once," the scout replied, no hint of uncertainty in his clear voice.

Mark slammed his fist down on the heavy table's wood, causing dishes to rattle startlingly. "I knew this would happen!" His words might lead one to believe the warrior to be afraid or reluctant to fight the wavevermin, but his harsh tone and the battlelight in his eyes spoke differently. "Which direction is it coming from?"

"West, sir."

The mouse's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, and suddenly he seemed far older than his seasons. "West… by the fur… Most likely he came from Tefkar' palace.  He'll have double the army…" At that moment, Riala saw with a sudden strange insight how hard it must be to command warriors.  How hard it would be to have to deal with the guilt and the grief whenever a soldier died.  A leader was responsible for the creatures that followed him.  The squirrel felt sympathy for the mouse warrior, but knew with a certainty that cut clear through her that she would never want to lead creatures into war, however glamorous the tales made it seem.

Mark straightened then, face set in stony determination, though grief flickered as dark shadows in his brown eyes. "Catapult!  Reysa!  Quickblade!  Fildo!  Callot!" His voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the background noise of the room like a finely honed sword, all his earlier hesitation gone.  Riala realized, though, that his unswerving decision was only an act, put on for the benefit of the North Cave warriors and their morale.

The five named goodbeasts hurried over to Mark.  One was a burly gray squirrel; one was a wiry mouse; one a dark-colored badger; the fourth an otter; and the last was a lanky hare. "Yessir?" they asked in near-unison.

"Fildo, take the non-combatants and children to the clifftop," Mark commanded, snapping out orders with rapid-fire speed. "Cellot, take a fourth of the army, half missilebeasts and half paw-to-paw fighters, to Deathclaw's left flank.  Nifo, take another fourth to his right.  Reysa, take a fourth around to his back and wait in the rocks.  When I blow the trumpet, fire as many times as you can. On the second blast, send in the paw-to-paw fighters.  Go!" The four warriors saluted, faces grim, and jogged off as they called out orders. "Catapult, take one of your rock-throwers and three fighters to the ridge.  Wait until the oarslaves are out, then destroy the _Blacktooth._" The squirrel nodded and bounded away. "Isran!"

A burly mouse ran up. "Sir?"

"Take a score of warriors in the longboats around the rocks as the _Blacktooth _comes in.  Stay out of sight and board the ship after the main vermin force leaves.  Free the oarslaves and get out fast.  Catapult is on the ridge, so you'll have to hurry," Mark warned.  Isran nodded his understanding and dashed away, calling out the names of his chosen fighters.

"I'll fight, too," Riala offered.

Mark shook his head. "No, Riala.  This is the problem of my warriors and myself.  You go on your way."

The squirrel laughed, a sound filled with false mirth that sounded hollow to her ears. "_Your _fight?  You mean you're not going to share?" Her expression turned grim, uncompromising, and all the lightness was gone from her tone with her next words. "I must repay you, Mark."

He glared at her, the tension in the air between them almost palpable. "I can see you will fight no matter what I say," he growled, paw clenched on his sword's hilt. "Very well, but Deathclaw is _mine!" _He spun on his heel and stalked outside to gather his section of warriors.  Riala watched him go, wondering what had provoked his display of hostility.  Nerves, stretched tight by the upcoming battle?  Fear, that the squirrel would rob him of revenge?  The warrior wasn't sure- but it didn't matter.  Roce in paw, she followed the Warrior.

To battle.

The only members of the North Cave warriors visible to the sea were those of the small section that Mark commanded.  The beach was as quiet as the forest after first frost while the ship lowered anchor, and Riala felt that a pass with her dagger through the air would snap the tension with one touch when more than two hundred searats boated ashore, unaware of the hidden warriors. 

From their hiding spot in the wave-worn beachside rocks, Isran and his crew rowed out silently to the ship, their oars making almost no sound as they entered and exited the seawater.  The lookouts died silently, slumping onto the wooden deck with only a harsh death rattle from a punctured long or slashed throat.  A few tense minutes passed, and then Isran's team reappeared with several bedraggled slaves.  No sooner were their boats away from the ship than Catapult's crew had cut loose a stone with a wild yell.

In shock and surprise, the searats just then reaching the beach twisted around in their longboats and stared at the huge boulder.  The stone seemed to hang in the air as it lazily reached its apex, and then began to fall.  It struck the _Blacktooth _amidships, ripping into the hull with a sickening thud.  The torn ship was taking on water fast, but still rested on the surface.  A second stone remedied that, the sound of splintering wood drowning out the outraged yells of the on looking vermin and the dying shrieks of beams shifting beyond their ability to bend.

The wavevermin reached the shore and poured out, yelling their wild rage. "_Maaaaaaark!" _one rat shouted, a yell that was almost a scream. "You'll _pay _for what you did to my ship, you coward!" The rat towered a full head over the rest of the searats, his scimitar glinting in the pale light of the full moon.

Mark raised his trumpet, a ram's discarded horn, and the blast cut across the searats' yells.  Arrows sliced into the tight pack of vermin, easy targets on the open beach.  Screams rent the air as they fell, but Deathclaw pressed his vermin on, rage contorting his already twisted features.  The enraged crew of the sunken _Blacktooth _obeyed, charging the rocks where the North Cave warriors were hidden.  Mark hastily blew a second blast on the ram's horn, signaling the charge.  The North Cave warriors, along with Riala, raced forwards with a combined shout of mingled war cries and fell upon the wavescum.

The fighting was a maelstrom of yells and screams and blood and death.  Riala was used to a more guerilla style of warfare- not this all-out bloodfest.  Even so, she was accustomed to killing, and a tight-packed horde only made it easier to take vermin life.  Her roce whirled, cracking skulls, breaking arms, splitting faces.  Its dark brown surface was soon soaked with blood.  Her dagger thrust where her short club would not work, and the brown and forest green tunic was soon darkened with red-black liquid, both vermin blood and the squirrel's own.

Caught up in the vicious, unthinking, unfeeling, whirling intensity of the battle, Riala's eyes became veiled with the red of bloodwrath.  The adrenaline pumping through her veins, the pain of her wounds, the sight of dying goodbeasts- it all combined to driver past thinking and past feeling into the berserker rage that drove away all reason.  Several of the North Cave warriors were the same way as they hacked through the seavermin, heedless of wounds.

A sudden lack of targets gave the squirrel pause, and the red began to fade from her gold-brown eyes.  She was on the fringe of the battle, outside the tight-packed fight where her deadly roce had carried her.  Yet it wasn't only she who stood on the outside- two vermin had also broken free of the turmoil of battle.  The two rats saw her at the same moment that she noticed them.  The three fighters abruptly crouched, each bleeding heavily from various wounds, their weapons ready.

Riala smiled, more of a baring of teeth than an actual grin.  Her eyes were beginning to redden again. "Come to fight or run, wavescum?" she rasped in a voice raw from yelling.

They looked at each other, and then at the red-brown squirrel.  Two of them and one of her.  They advanced, grinning, and she waited, roce in one paw, bloodied dagger on the other.  They were a paws-length away from her and slashing with blood-stained cutlasses and…

…she wasn't there.  Riala had dodged away and raced behind them with the speed and agility that is the trademark of a squirrel.  Her dagger flashed in the moonlight and buried itself in one rat's back.  He gasped, the last breath he'd ever take, and fell heavily to the ground.  The second searat stared from Riala to his comrade and back again.

"Naow it be ye an' me," the warrioress said with a grin, a macabre expression of death's advance.  Her normally imperceptible northern accent was much more marked- the signal that she was at her most dangerous.

The rat snarled and charged, slashing wildly.  Riala blocked with her roce, and the hard wood was barely nicked from the cutlass' bite.  She swung the stick while the wavescum was still confused, cracking his head with intense force and sending him crumpling in a heap.

The battle was dying down, the North Cave warriors emerging triumphant- but at a terrible cost.  Almost as many goodbeasts lay dead as vermin.  Riala looked about for an enemy, and finding none, her wounds began to make themselves felt with a vengeance.  She swayed on her feet, and then crumpled with a groan of pain, the ground meeting her along with painless unconsciousness.

"Good, thou art awakening at last."

Riala groaned as the voice pounded through her tufted ears to her head, sending pain shooting through her skull and then her entire body.  A cold beaker was placed to her lips. "Drink!" somebeast ordered.  Riala didn't have the strength to resist, but she gagged on the vile medicine as it went down.  It certainly brought her around quickly enough, feeling like fire in her empty stomach.

"Yaaagh!  What're you trying to do, kill me?  I'd rather death by a vermin blade than by drinking that stuff!" she spluttered as soon as she'd finished coughing.  The squirrel opened her eyes at last, glaring at the mouse that had fed her the potion – _poison, _Riala corrected herself, grimacing at the vile aftertaste.

"It gives ye strength," the dark brown mouse told her, "and ye need strength to heal thyself."

The golden-tailed squirrel blinked, clearing the last clouds of sleep from her eyes. "But does it have to taste so _horrible?"_

"Aye," the healer replied calmly, "for 'tis sore harmful to the body when taken overmuch, and if it held a sweet taste, thou would want much of it, would ye not?"

Riala grimaced and inspected her wounds, which were healing fairly well. "I suppose you know what you're doing," she said dubiously, rewrapping the bandages she'd removed.  The squirrel huddled in her sheets and looked about the infirmary cave for her tunic.  The white shift she'd been placed in wasn't exactly warm, nor fit for travel use. "Where's my tunic, healer?"

"My name be Sablepaw," the mouse told her, "not 'healer.'  And _ye _are not yet healed enough to be wandering again."

"It's good enough," Riala groused, swinging her footpaws carefully over the side of the bed and standing up gingerly.  She ached all over, and the wound in her throwing arm throbbed painfully.  With Sablepaw looking on disapprovingly, Riala hobbled over to a mirror and peered into it.

The squirrel in the mirror was nearly unrecognizable.  Her ear had been sliced nearly in half, but stitched back together.  A white bandage was wrapped around her head to cover a nastily deep cut on her cheek.  Her left eye was discolored from a blow in the battle.  A long gash, slowly healing, ran from her shoulder to her elbow, and a second gash was across her right thigh.  Riala grimaced and prodded her nose with one scarred paw. "What a sight," she commented wryly. "Any vermin who sees _this _face won't wait to fight- he'll probably just take off screaming."

"An' it please thee, squirrel," the healer said, sarcasm heavy in her archaic formality, "thou shalt surely see now why ye cannot leave yet.  Thou art far too weak still."

"Ah, give the squirrel a break, Sable," an otter on another bed called. "T'aint goin' ter kill 'er t'start travelin' agin."

Sablepaw shot the heavily bandaged otter a frosty glare. "T'will not, ye say, Swiftrudd?" she snapped. "Wilt thou stake this squirrel's life on it?  And if she encounters vermin as she wanders, as she surely shalt?  What then?  Wilt she not be defeated in her weakened condition?"

"That's fightin', matey, not travelin'," the otter objected.

"And shall she be any less dead, any farther from the gates of Dark Forest?  Nay, Swiftrudd," the healer said coldly, answering her own question, "nay, she shall not.  I firmly advise her not to travel unhealed!"

Riala groaned inwardly. "Enough, Sablepaw!  I'll stay, don't worry!" The mouse _was _right- she couldn't travel until she was better.  But as the squirrel warrioress laid back down on her bed, she bit her bottom lip in frustration.  Every day in bed was another day that the Longclaws traveled, another day farther away from her.  Another day for the trail to get cold…

Chapter 3: Salamandastron

            It was a full month after that day in the infirmary of the North Caves that Riala resumed following Nightdeath Longclaws' trail.  Sablepaw had finally deemed her fit to travel, after Riala demonstrated just how well she was healed by leaping over the healer's head and scampering up a wall.  Now she started out of the Caves, carrying a satchel of food given to her by the warriors within.

            "Riala!"

            The squirrel paused, barely ten lengths from the caves, then turned. "What is it, Mark?"

            The warrior walked up to her and handed her a parchment. "I had my trackers look for the Longclaws' trail," he told her. "They asked various goodbeasts if they'd seen the wolverine, and mapped his trail as far as Salamandastron.  You'll have to find it on your own once you get to that point."

            Riala looked at the parchment, a map of the area between the Caves and Salamandastron, with the Longclaws' trail shown as a dotted line.  She nodded gratefully to the mouse warrior. "Thank you," the squirrel said honestly. "I really appreciate this."

            Mark smiled slightly. "I understand." He gazed off into the distance, over the sea, and a shadow darkened his eyes and clouded his face. "Would you take a bit of advice from an old warrior, squirrel?"

            She glanced at him in surprise.  His voice had sounded as old as he'd said, as if he were positively ancient, aged beyond his years.  Something had changed since the battle, and Riala had only just noticed it.  Perhaps this was the first time Mark had let this… _agedness _show, or perhaps it was only now that she had noticed it. "Of course," she agreed.

            The mouse watched her in silence for a long moment, growing older and more wearied in Riala's eyes.  Weary of battle… weary of… of life? "Don't let your hatred for the wolverine consume you," he said quietly, almost whispering it. "Don't let it take over your life." He laughed suddenly, but it sounded forced. "Listen to me, sounding like a feeble pawed elderbeast.  Good luck in your hunt, Riala.  Just remember what I said."

            Riala gazed at Mark levelly as he pulled himself together, hiding the weariness once more, but she could still see a shadow of it in his eyes now that she knew where to look. _What happened to him? _she thought, but nodded. "I will, and thank you again, Mark."  She still didn't quite understand, but she realized it was important to him that she consent. "Farewell."

            "Seasons bless," Mark returned, watching with a shadow lurking in his gaze as the warrioress headed south to Salamandastron.

            Riala set a hard pace for herself, wearing off the flab gathered from a month of bedrest.  She didn't follow the Longclaws' somewhat meandering trail, instead taking as straight of a path as possible.  Hopefully she could catch up without too much trouble…

            She traveled hard for nearly a month, going due south the entire time, getting closer and closer to Salamandastron.  The squirrel avoided trouble when she could- fights would only slow her down, and she wasn't yet as fit as she could be.  Her slowed reflexes would be a strong disadvantage.

            It was in the Badlands, less than a day's travel from the fire mountain, that Riala was at last forced into a fight.  A born woodlander, the squirrel was unused to silence.  She was accustomed to hearing birds sing and leaves rustle with movement.  The first sign of danger was a silent forest.  When something frightens the birds to silence, it's sure to be unfriendly.  That was why the squirrel was wary and cautious as her footpaws crunched in the sand of the dry desert dunes.  Her pawsteps were the only sound under the morning sun, and that signified danger to the woodlander.

            Her instincts turned out to be right.  She heard footsteps that were not her own slapping on the dunes and shifting the sand.  Riala whirled, roce out and read in her throwing paw as she searched for the other walker.  Gold-brown eyes met only sand and rocks and sunlight.  Slowly she turned in a complete circle, every sense she had straining to detect another creature.

            The sun abruptly went behind a cloud, a shadow falling across her body- but the sky was cloudless.  Riala leapt to the side, out of the sudden shade, rolling when she hit the sand and rising back to her footpaws in one smooth motion as a net fell on the spot she'd just left.  She flicked her mobile golden tail free of the entangling net and threw her stick at the top of a dune.  It struck the warty toad on his wedge-shaped snout and sent him tumbling backwards off of the sand dune.

            The squirrel retrieved her roce quickly, tensed in a fighter's crouch, eyes darting back and forth for more opponents.  She groaned inwardly as a full two score toads waddled into sight, each armed with a net and a trident.  She checked her position and groaned again- like a fool, she'd put herself in the low ground, surrounded by high dunes on all sides.  Maybe if she hurried, she could get to the top of a dune…

            Riala bounded up the slippery side of the nearest sand dune on all fours, paws never touching the sliding ground for more than a moment.  Upon reaching the peak, she parried a trident thrust from the toad standing there and sliced his net in two with her dagger.  A hard downward swing with her roce cracked the ugly creature's flimsy skull and sent him tumbling.

            The rest of the toads realized that they had lost the high ground, but it didn't matter to them.  Forty toads against one squirrel were easy odds.  The warrioress knew it as well.  There was no way she could fight all of the ugly amphibians off on her own.  She could try to run… but the dunes went on for miles, she was almost out of water, and she wasn't built for running on shifting sand.  Besides, these toads were between here and Salamandastron.

            So it came down to two choices.  Fight and most likely die or be captured, or run and most likely die from dehydration and starvation.  Riala shuddered inwardly at the thought.  She'd take her chances with the toads.

            "C'mon, ya warty cowards!" she shouted at the wary dunebeasts. "Ugly hellspawn!  Bloody web-footed wart-faced whining wimps!"

            The toads croaked and gurgled indignantly, then charged her in a massive attack.  Riala smiled thinly, humorlessly, and let out three lengths of cord. "Come to die," she whispered, and gripped the cord tied to her roce with one firm paw.  The squirrel whirled in a circle as the toads reached her, the stick flying outwards with centrifugal force, smacking soundly on the sides of amphibian skulls. "Riiilaaaaaar!" she yelled, working herself into a berserker rage- into the red-misted, unfeeling, unthinking state of bloodwrath.  She came out of her spin and reversed directions, eliminating the vertigo.  The toads fell back, croaking uncertainly, not wanting to be the next to fall to the whirling stick.

            Riala yanked on the cord, and the stick flew towards her.  She caught it and bared her teeth at the watching toads. "Any more of ye wishin' tae die?" she shouted, her usually near-imperceptible northern accent becoming much more pronounced with adrenaline.

            An annoyed croak came from somewhere near the back of the toads as nobeast advanced. "Catcha bushytail, grroik!" he croaked. "Catcha_now, _cowardbeasts!  Grroik!"

            Spurred on by the words of their king, the toads advanced on the squirrel with ready tridents.  She was breathing heavily from exertion and bloodwrath, but not about to give up, although they came at her from all sides. "Riiiiilaaaaaar!" she roared, and dove into the ranks, bashing with her roce-paw and slicing with her dagger paw.  No time for feints and parries- all she could do was act, all she could do was attack with all the ferocious strength she possessed.

            A net fell on top of her- she slashed at it with her dagger and struggled free, only to be entangled by another net.  Encouraged by the faltering squirrel, the toads all tossed their nets and threw themselves on top of her to force her to stop moving. _Idiots, _the warrioress thought with a soundless snarl, slashing bellies and throats with her dagger.  She didn't have to mobility to use her roce, but a bladed weapon was certainly of use in quarters as close as this.  More toads piled on her, however, and the bodies of the dead kept her from reaching the live ones.  She was being crushed under the weight; she couldn't move- couldn't _breathe…_

And then the toads moved off of her.  She couldn't see much as her vision was obscured by blackness from the lack of air, but she drew in life-giving breaths as she was wrapped tightly in the nets.  Her dagger was prized from her paw, and she was lifted by several ugly amphibians.

            Captured.  Blood and bones, this was annoying!

            Riala's vision finally cleared in time to see the ground rushing up to meet her when the toads dropped her.  Even wrapped in nets, she could still move somewhat.  She ducked her shoulder and curled into a roll, using her own momentum to bring herself to her footpaws.  In front of her was a massive, warty toad with a comical tin crown on his head. _King Croakweb, _she guessed. 

            Her assumption turned out to be correct. "King Croakweb is I," the toadking croaked. "Bushytail is catched.  Bushytail bowking!"

            The squirrel shot "King Croakweb" a withering look of utter disgust. "Kroakweb is legless tadpole," she told him, trying to guess what would be insulting to a toad. "Nono, Croakweb not slimetoad!  Croakweb is flyhatchling!"

            The king's eyes bulged with comical fury. "Bushytail foolbeast!" he gurgled indignantly. "Bushytail _will _bow!  Croakweb _toadking, _not flybabe!"  A toad behind Riala struk her in the knees and then the head with the butt of his trident, driving her to the ground in what looked like a low genuflection.  Stars burst across her vision from the blow to her head, and she fought unconsciousness as Croakweb gurgle-laughed scornfully.

            "See bushytail?  Bushytail bow like cowardbeast!" he said. "Bushytail foolbeast, foodbeast!  Now take bushytail…"

            "Eulaliaaaaa!" It was a deafening shout, echoing over the dunes and sending the toads into a frenzy of fear.

            "Longears!" King Croakweb croaked hoarsely. "Run now!  Leave bushytail!  Guard king!  Help kiiiiing!" His last word faded into a panicked, drawn out scream as the press of panicked toads abandoned all thought for loyalty to their grossly fat monarch, thinking only of their own safety as they tried to escape, trampling Croakweb underfoot.

            Riala curled into a ball of net and squirrel as the toads raced away in a panic.  She could almost feel the bruises forming as yet another warty amphibian trod upon her in its rush to escape.  The solid _thwack _of wood hitting skulls sounded like music to the squirrel's tufted ears, and then finally the frantic croaking receded into the distance.  She uncurled with a groan and opened her eyes.

            A light sand-colored hare was standing over the squirrel with a concerned expression etched on her features.  On seeing Riala's eyes open, she waggled her ears in relief. "I say, wot're ya doin' on th' flippin' ground, treejumper?" she asked.

            The squirrel grimaced. "What does it look like?" she groused. "Mind cutting me free?"

            The hare shrugged and dipped her lance almost casually to Riala's red-brown fur.  With a few seemingly careless swipes, during which the wide-eyed squirrel scarcely dared to breathe for fear of the hare misjudging the slice, she cut the nets into shreds.  Riala climbed to her footpaws carefully, wincing as a few ribs complained with a wave of pain. "Thanks, I think," she said to the hare fem.

            "Wot about us?" another voice protested merrily.  Four sand-furred hares, each wearing tunics colored the same dusty shade as the dunes, much like the one the female hare wore, jogged easily back from where they'd been encouraging toads to run a bit faster.

            Riala grinned at the one who had spoken, a large hare with one entirely black ear.  "Thank _you _too," she told him, addressing the other three hares as well. "I'd probably be toad dinner by now if you five hadn't helped out."

            The black-eared hare looked around at the bodies of dead toads that littered the dunes. "I don't know 'bout that, treejumper," he said dryly. "Y'seem t'have been doin' rather well on y'own, doncher know."

            "Aye, _very _well," Riala agreed sarcastically. "Tangled in a net and lying on the ground before a warty toad who insists on being called king." She shrugged. "No matter.  Thanks for saving me and kindly accept my gratitude.  The name's Riala." She began winding the cord of her roce into a manageable coil as she spoke, untangling the occasional knot.

            "Top o' th' morn' t'you, Riala," the black-eared hare greeted her. "I'm Sarrock, th' sergeant of this spiffin' Long Patrol that y'claim saved y'skin.  Th' friendly gel there's Lera…"

            "An' he never gets th' entire name right," the light-furred haremaid groused, "so I think I'll keep th' chap from manglin' it all over again.  Th' name's Lilyrun Eulalia Racelong Archereye, or Lera, y'see.  Simple, wot?"

            Sarrock rolled his eyes and motioned to the previous silent hares behind him.  They were tossing a lance back and forth between them at blinding speed. "Th' small chap there, that's Recar.  He's th' champion runner in th' Long Patrol, though I don't bally well believe th' chap is done growin' yet!" Recar was indeed small, not long an adult, but his lean physique and the long muscles of a runner on his legs gave testament to Sarrock's description.  He didn't look over as his name was mentioned, but remained intent on the whirling lance. "Th' ol' graybeard's Tion," he added with a grin. "A spiffin' warrior, but don't tell th' feeblepaws I swaid that!" Tion was graying a little around his ears and whiskers, but he was muscular and fit, his eyes hard and flat, fixed on the lance.  It whizzed point first for his shoulder, and he moved in a blue, stepping aside and snatching it out of the air with one nimble paw.  He turned it over and threw it back in the same smooth motion.  No, Tion was definitely _not _feeling his years.

            Riala watched, alarmed and tense as the deadly lance flew back and forth.  Sarrock ignored the potential peril faced by his patrol members and continued introducing them instead. "Th' clown an' th' last bally chap of th' group has t'be Nuron, doncher know!  Nobeast else left t'be him, y'see.  Don't see why anybeast else would want t'be 'im, though!"

            Nuron was indeed a jester.  He stared at the lance with a dumbfounded expression as it flew back and forth between Tion and Recar.  Abruptly Tion threw the weapon at Nuron, whose ears shot up in surprise as he fell back onto the sand.  His hind legs shot up and grabbed the lance in mid-air, and he kicked out.  Straight as an arrow, the weapon whistled in Recar's direction, striking him directly in the chest.  The squirrel yelped in shock as the young hare fell onto his back with a whoosh of expelled air, and then rolled over onto all fours, coughing.  The lance, entirely bloodless, lay on the ground beside him.

            Nuron waggled his long ears at Riala with a laughing grin at her confused expression. "Cloth tip, y'see," he explained, bounding upright. "Silly Recar.  Never let y'r guard down, doncher know!  Tsk.  Still 'aven't learned the basics, wot?"

            The young hare scowled and pulled himself up, using the javelin as a staff, rubbing his ribs ruefully. "Th' ol' thing may 'ave a cloth tip, but it still leaves a bally bruise, y'know!"

            "An' mayhap that bruise'll make y'pay attention next time, wot?" It was the quiet Tion that spoke this time, and then his light brown gaze flickered over to RIala. "I say, wotcha doin', treejumper?"

            "Looking for my dagger," she replied, kicking a toad's carcass over to his back.  The glint of the harsh southern sun on blood-wet steel caught her eye, and she bent down over the body of a toad whose webbed hand clutched the bloodied dagger.  Riala pulled her blade out of its hand and pushed it into the earth to clean it.

            "So y'keep y'r dagger clean an' forget about y'self, m'gel?" Lera grinned at her, gesturing with a paw at the squirrel's blood-stained tunic.  Her red-brown fur and rust-gold tail had been turned almost black, and slick with the blood of toads, as well as some of the squirrel's blood. "Let's get t'the ol' fire mountain, an' y'can wash all that off.  How's that sound, ol' thing?"

            Riala nodded in relieved agreement. "Sounds bally good, ol' gel!"

            Sarrock laughed at her attempt to speak in the hare manner. "Enough jawin' then.  Let's get runnin', chaps'n'chapesses."

            Riala had heard that Salamandastron was huge, but she was struck by the sheer enormity of the extinct volcano. It towered above the sea like a stalwart sentinel, never sleeping, unmovable and unconquerable. The setting sun turned its rocky face a rich gold riddled with shadows. For a long moment, the squirrel could do little but stare up at the towering mountainous fortress, craning her neck to see the top.

A calloused paw pushed her head down to a more comfortable position. "Goin' t'get y'head stuck like that, treejumper," Lera told her with a laugh. "Y'll see th' top soon enough, an' from a better spot too, wot!"

"'Allo th' bally mountain thingummy!" Nuron shouted irreverently. "Care t'let a tired patrol inside?"  
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and a huge dark form stood in the shadows of the entryway for a brief moment. Then he stepped forward into the light, a tall badger dressed in a heavy smith's apron stained with the black soot of the forge fires. His eyes were the red-brown of a mustelid, and he leaned casually on a massive hammer. "Nuron, you're as respectful as ever, I see," he said with a rumbling bass laugh.

"Aye, y'old stripemutt," the hare returned, an irrepressible grin creasing his sandy face. "Wot's f'r dinner?"

"Th' cook hinted at th' possibility of hare-tongue stew," the lord of Salamandastron replied casually. "Sounds good t'me."

Nuron's ears stood straight up, quivering with indignation. "Bad form, ol' thing, hintin' at usin' a chap's taster f'r dinner! I wouldn't be able t'taste th' bally stew, y'know! Jolly bad form, Fire-me-sight!"

The badger chuckled, looking past Nuron to the squirrel behind him. "Ah, a guest! I hope you'll excuse my poor manners and those of th' walking stomach here. I'm Firesight, Badger Lord of Salamandastron."

"We found Riala 'ere tryin' t'knock out Croakwotsit's entire frog army with a flippin' stick an' dagger," Sarrock explained before the squirrel could return the introduction.

"An' I'm thinkin' she's wantin' a good bath afore she eats'n'chats, y'see," Lera added, grinning at Riala apologetically.

"Aye," she agreed, mock aggravation coloring her tone. "The longears promised a bath, but I didn't think they meant a dust bath!"

Firesight laughed at the exchange and shouldered his massive hammer as if it weighed nothing. "Welcome, then, to the mountain of the fire lizards. Lera'll show you to th' baths. I've got t'get back to the forge, myself. I'll see you at dinner." With a silent grace that seemed contradictory to his striped bulk, the badger melted into the caverns of Salamandastron, leaving the door cracked open for the small group.

"Y'heard th' stripedog, Lilyrun Eulalia Racelong Archereye," Recar said, not stumbling once over the convoluted excuse for a name. "Get movin', wot?"

"Move y'self, y'overgrown roadrunner," Lera shot back good-naturedly. She winked at Riala. "If yore finished with y'spiffin' dust bath, m'gel, I'll show y'where t'wash th' dust out of yore fur!"

It was nearly an hour before Riala finally decided she passed as reasonably clean. She'd not had a good bath in at least a week's time, having either been in too much of a hurry for one or not near enough water. It had taken several tubfuls of forge-heated water to eliminate the mess of blood, sand, and sweat caked on her red-brown fur in a dark crust.

She stepped out of the tub, water dripping to the stone floor and running down the almost imperceptible slope to the drain at the far end of the room. The clear liquid poured down in a waterfall as the squirrel wrung out her rust-gold tail with both scarred paws, and then shook herself like a dog might, sending droplets flying every which way. A towel hung by the door next to the short, thick, dark brown stick she called her roce and her plain but serviceable dagger. As she briskly toweled herself dry, two tunics that lay on the floor next to the doorway caught her gold-brown gaze. One was a dune-brown Salamandastron tunic., and she pulled it on before picking up her usual tattered, worn, forest-hued garb. She looked at the mottled cloth in disgust. "I'm going to have to get a new one made," Riala muttered.

A paw rapped on the bath-chamber door. "I say, ol' thing, didja drown in there?"

The squirrel recognized the voice as Lera's. "Aye, I jolly well did," she said, mimicking the hare accent. "Wot else would I be doin' in 'ere?"

"Yore accent's flippin' 'orrible," Lera informed her as Riala opened the door, coiling her roce cord over one arm. The hare immediately did a double-take, staring at the squirrel's rust-gold tail. "Golden tail?" she exclaimed.

"That is my name…" Riala said, giving Lera an odd look. By the expression on the hare's face, one would have thought she'd just spotted the gates of Dark Forest.

"No, treejumper! Yore tail! Y'didn't tell us yore name was Riala Goldentail!" Her tone was almost accusatory.

The squirrel was getting more and more confused. "Is it important?"  
Lera's mouth opened wide for an outburst, then closed with a sigh. "Aye, bally well important. Ah, well, jes' goes t'show y'can't thwart fate anymore'n y'can stop th' seasons. Let's go t'get some tucker. How's that sound, chappess?"

"Spiffin'!" Riala said, forcing a grin and pushing aside her discomfort over Lera's odd reaction to the sight of her rust-gold tail.

The Salamandastron fare was excellent, Riala decided as she sat down beside Lera at a long table laden with food. "It looks delicious!" she exclaimed.

"It is," Lera agreed, loading her plate with fresh green salad. The squirrel followed suit, dumping shredded cheese liberally on her own. Hare and squirrel dug in simultaneously with the other hares in the mountain hall.

All sound abruptly ceased as the door in the back of the cavern creaked open. The powerfully built badger walked into the room from the forge and looked disapprovingly at the filled plates and sheepish-faced hares. "Starting without me?" he rumbled, wiping his forge-stained paws on his thick leather blacksmith's tunic.

"Well, we were hungry! M'poor tum was growlin' loud as you in bloodwrath!" Nuron called. "And y'were busy with yore fire'n'rocks!"

"Metal, longears," Firesight said calmly, walking over to the chair at the head of the long table. "Not rocks."

"An' metal is rock, s'cuse th' correction, Lord Firesight," a hare Riala hadn't yet met pointed out.

The badger glared at the grinning creature, then turned back to the rest of the Salamandastron hares. "You can all go back to eating now, not that I need to tell you," he told them, sinking down into the huge, ornately carved chair. As he reached for a platter of fresh-baked bread, his red-brown gaze fell on Riala. Shock sparked in his eyes for a brief moment, and he stood quickly, wasting no time. "Sarrock, Duneswift, Starsong! I'm holding a council of war, now! Everybeast else, begin preparations for defense against an attacking horde. You, squirrel!"

Stunned and confused by the sudden announcement of war, the red-brown squirrel could do little but stare at Firesight for several long moments before finally realizing that he was speaking to her. "Sir?" she asked uncertainly as the hall fell silent, every eye focused on the badger lord.

"If you're in any sort of a hurry, you'd better leave now," he told her, deep voice grim. "There'll be a battle soon, and I've no idea how long it'll take."

Riala gaped at the badger, astonished. "How can you know that?"

"Your tail's gold," he replied, as if that explained everything. "If you must stay, Recar'll show you what t'do. It's your choice." With that, Firesight looked out over the silent hall of hares impatiently, one massive paw tapping the dark wood of the table. "Well?" he demanded. "We've not much time until Zarok an' his horde reach th' mountain. Move!"

He turned and left the room at a trot as the hares exploded into a flurry of motion. A paw grabbed her arm on passing, and the squirrel's gaze focused on Recar's face. The young Runner tugged her arm insistently, urgently. "We've got t'take up positions in th' ol' fire mountain. D'ya know how t'shoot an arrow or sling or th' like?"

"I can use a bow well enough," she replied.

"Bally good," the hare said. "C'mon, treebusher, let's find ya a bow."

Riala grimaced, standing and stretching her cramping legs. One footpaw was numb and began to tingle with the renewed blood flow. She gazed out the narrow arrow slit at the campfires below, a hundred tiny stars embedded in the beach. "What are they waiting for?" she muttered irritably. "Why are they just sitting there?"

Tion was an old veteran at pitched battle, and understood the tactics of war far better than the squirrel, whose main experience had been as a lone fighter.  He leaned against the wall next to the arrow slit, working steadily on fletching arrow shafts. "Could be several things," he replied in his quiet voice. "Might be they're tryin' t'scare us, impress us with numbers. Won't work, y'know. Small group compared t'most we've fought." He held an arrow up to the torchlight, examining his fletching job, and then tied off the string and reached for another wooden shaft and more feathers. "'Nother reason might be th' vermin're simply takin' a rest afore battle, seein' as they've been marchin' f'r so long. Likely, though, s'not th' case, doncherknow." His light brown eyes narrowed, paws stilling on the arrow as he gazed at the distant fires. "Most like, they aren't there at all. Jes' th' fires, makin' us think they're there. Seein' how t' leader, Zarok, is a fox, I'd say they're comin' up th' mountain right 'bout now."

The squirrel gaped at the calm manner in which he told her this last, unhurriedly tying off the fletching of his arrow. "Then why are we just sitting here?" she asked incredulously.

The grizzled warrior inspected his fletching critically, setting it aside before answering. "Because Firesight's planned f'r this. He's got hares hidden down there, waitin' t'scout out th' camp. Th' moment th' vermin leave, we'll know. You'll hear a loud whistle relayed from th' scouts to here."

"Huh." Riala watched the vermin camp thoughtfully, fingering the seasoned wood of her roce. "So what are we going to do? Wait?"

Tion nodded minutely, beginning work on yet another arrow. "Best advantage is t'ambush th' ambushers. They'll try t'attack uss, but we'll be waitin' with hot oil, boulders, arrows, slingstones, javelins, an' th' like. Many of 'em'll die without a single loss of one of ours. Then we attack head-on later, 'cos we've not enough food t'last out a siege. Battle'll end at sunrise, 'cept f'r cleanup work." The last sentence was added almost reluctantly, a brief sadness flickering across the veteran's scarred features, gone so quickly that Riala wondered if she'd imagined it. Then there was no time left to ponder it, for a piercing whistle split the air, assaulting her sensitive ears, and Tion set an arrow to his bow. The squirrel followed suit a moment later, not yet drawing it, gold-brown eyes probing the shadows for any sign of vermin.

The hare cursed softly, muttering something about being a fool, and turned from Riala's view. She blinked rapidly as the torch behind her hissed and flickered out, blanketing both warriors in darkness. Clothing rustled softly as Tion returned to his position at the arrow slit. She realized his reason for extinguishing the torch as her eyes gradually became accustomed to the blackness, able to see outside more clearly than before.  
Shadowed forms could be glimpsed down the rocks, creeping up the mountain like a steadily rising flood of darkness. Riala's bow creaked as she pulled back the arrow, taking careful aim. Tion's paw lashed out, grasping the taut bowstring, and he shook his head. "Wait," he mouthed silently, barely visible in the dim light of the moon. The ground rumbled beneath their footpaws as the vermin crept ever closer, and huge boulders careened past the arrow slit in a blue or movement.  Vermin screams of panic were cut short, yet those not fortunate enough to die still screamed…

Shouts spurred the living relentlessly onward, and finally Tion drew his bow. The arrow whistled past and down to the remaining vermin, and Riala pulled back an arrow of her own. The string hummed as an arrow flew from its grasp, whistling a death song. Not waiting to see if her aim had been true, the squirrel reached for another arrow and set it to her bow.

Time stretched on and the vermin kept coming. Riala felt the quiver for another arrow and found it empty. She cursed under her breath. "No arrows left!"  
The hare pressed another quiver into her paw. "Y'get remark'bly focused when y'shoot," he said. "Runner came by an' dropped more off. Didn'tcha notice?"  
She shrugged, rust-gold tail twitching as she took an arrow from the proffered quiver and loosed it into the steadily shrinking horde.

More shouts from below, sharp and commanding. The vermin stopped, turned, and began to recede like the tide pulled back by an insistent moon. Riala relaxed her bow in relief, setting down the weapon and unclasping cramped paws. She worked them open and closed, grimacing at newly formed blisters where she'd pulled the string back repeatedly. "I'm not used to using a bow so much," she said, pressing her chafed paws to the cool stone.

"Y'may need t'use it more soon," Tion said grimly, watching the vermin retreat. "Zarok's slyer'n I thought. Made fewer fires than he had soldiers. Fooled us t'thinkin' there were less of 'em than there were, y'see. We hurt 'em, but not too much… only enough t'make it so's we might win in a pitched battle. Which is goin' ter be necessary, seein' as we can't last out a siege."

Pawsteps sounded in the stone halls behind the two, and a young hare dashed up with a torch in one paw. "S'cuse me, but Lord Firesight wants everybeast in th' bally ol' mess hall, doncherknow." She nodded again, a nervous gesture that the dust-brown hare fem probably wasn't even aware of making. She hurried down the hall to the next arrow slit, and squirrel and hare turned wordlessly, starting down the winding tunnel at a quick jog.

The massive dining hall was eerily silent despite the gathering of so many hares.  The air crackled with an unspoken tension, dampened somewhat by the grim solemnity in the light-brown gaze of each dun colored hare.  Firesight's broad-striped face held resignation, but his light brown eyes showed fierce anticipation and the reddish glint of bloodlust.

"I'm going to challenge Zarok the Black to a duel." The badger's voice was quiet, but his bass rumble reached everybeast's ears without difficulty. "I've no illusions about vermin being honorable; I know that even if I kill the fox, his horde will still attack.  But we match them in numbers, if not even outnumber them, and without their leader they'll be less cohesive a fighting force.  I want the patrols to take up positions among the boulders near the mountain's base, and under the sand.  Watch for treachery.  Attack at the first sign of trouble.  We _cannot _afford a siege."

A darker colored hare than most raised a hefty paw. "Wot about th' chaps an' chapesses not on patrols?"

"Their job is to lay down a heavy covering fire when the vermin attack, then stop once the enemy reaches the hidden patrols.  If the patrols are taking heavy casualties, then the reserves will attack," Firesight said, his voice grim. "Do all of you know what to do?" A chorus of "ayes" was his answer, and the badger lord nodded grimly. "Right.  Take up your positions quickly and quietly, as you have been trained." He turned to leave, rumbling a last command. "Dismissed!"

The pale light of the false dawn was turning the sky a dark gray when Riala returned to her post.  Below the arrow slit she was stationed at, she could barely make out several hares, their dun fur almost invisible against the sand as they stole away silently from the mountain and buried themselves beneath a layer of pale earth.  Nothing stirred in the vermin camp, nor from the mountain once the patrols had hidden themselves.  The only sound in the still air was that of waves gently lapping the wet sand, thickening the air with the tang of salt.

The deceptive peace of the dawn was shattered with a thunderous roar that echoed across the beach, sending chills up the spine of anybeast within earshot. _"EULALIAAAAAAAAAA!" _The warcry of the fire mountain bellowed from a single cavernous chest was both challenge and proclamation of fierce defiance.  Out of the darkness of the mountain's interior strode a powerful figure, polished armor gleaming in the first rays of the sun, eyes glinting the red of flame – the red of blood.  In the silence that followed the battle cry, the _shing _of a greatsword leaving its sheath was chillingly audible.  Firesight stood between the vermin camp and Salamandastron like a figure out of legend, undefeatable, impassable, power wrapped into each taut muscle and sinew.

 "_Zarok!"_ Hatred was packed into each thunderous syllable of the harsh name, and the badger lifted his blade as if to cleave the very skies asunder. "_I am Firesight, Badger Lord of Salamandastron, friend to Starsong, the hare you so bravely killed!"_ Sarcasm hung heavy on those last three words, and his gauntleted fist shook with rage. "_If you be not a coward, fox…"_ and the sword slashed down to the ground, gleaming red in the blood-touched light of the sunrise, _"…then fight me!  To the death, to settle this NOW!"_

The echoes of the badger lord's challenge died into silence, the vermin camp remaining motionless.  Then a living shadow stepped through the lines of tents into the growing light to reveal a night-black fox, flat golden eyes expressionless as his footpaws crunched on the sand.

"Zarok," Firesight said with grim satisfaction.

The fox answered not a word, gaze never wavering from the massive badger.  He wore mail, fine linked chain almost as heavy as the badger's plate armor, yet the black fox moved as if it weighed nothing.  He was tall for his species, almost at a height with Firesight, though with a build more wiry than thickly muscled.  He held a glaive, the curved blade at the end of the long staff gleaming wickedly, and his paws gripped it with the light ease of expert use.

"You named me a coward, badger," the black fox said quietly, voice devoid of inflection. "Yet even such a _vermin _as I am not without honor." He smiled thinly, humorlessly. "If I die, my army will leave in peace.  If you die, we will take over your mountain and execute everybeast within.  Warriors make poor slaves." The humorless smile gained a wry twist. "But what will you care?  You'll be dead." Flat amber eyes watched with droll amusement as Firesight's paw clenched on the hilt of his greatsword, and then the smile vanished. "If we both die… then my army will attack yours, and to the victor go the spoils.  Are these acceptable terms, badger?"

Firesight nodded firmly, eyes flashing his anger. "Agreed."

Zarok bowed once over his glaive. "Then… let us fight!"

With seemingly impossible speed, the bladed staff lashed up and out at the badger's unprotected footpaws, but Firesight was not easily taken by surprise.  A flick of one massive paw sent the greatsword down to block the slash, and then up again as the fox sought for Firesight's arm.  The long polearm was skillfully deflected at every slash and thrust, and then it was the badger's turn to attack.  His muscles bulged as he feinted and thrust, slashed and cut, seeking an opening in Zarok's defense.  The greatsword lanced towards the fox's midriff, but he stepped aside and turned the blade with the pole of his glaive.  Firesight attempted a thrust to his opponent's chest, but wood again met the flat of the blade. Neither could seem to touch the other as they danced death across the shifting sands.

From her vantage point within the mountain, Riala shook her head in amazement, even as she tensed with concern for the powerful badger. "I've seen bladework like this only once before," she murmured to nobeast in particular, gold-brown eyes fixed on the deadly match below.

"Aye, an' few times will y'see it again, chapess," a rough voice said from the shadows.

The squirrel jumped at the unexpected noise and whirled, dagger instantly at paw.  A low chuckle met her straining ears, and a graying hare stepped out of the darkness.  He had been dark brown once, if the sable interspersed with the gray was any indication, but now he was a grizzled elder who still moved with a warrior's fluid grace.

"Y'can put that up, m'gel," the hare said with a grin, nodding to her dagger.  She looked at the blade curiously, unable to recall drawing it, and returned it to its sheath slowly.

"Sorry about that, Elder," Riala apologized. "I suppose its reflexes…" She turned to the arrow slit, gazing down at the battle below.

"Th' name's Loamleg, treebusher, not Elder," the hare said frostily, peering over her shoulder at the duel. "An' that _is _quite a battle, wot?"

"Aye," Riala agreed, watching. "But nobeast's even drawn blood yet…"

"An' evenly matched as those two are, t'will take a while.  Y'see, if'n Firesight c'n break th' fox's lame s'cuse f'r a spear, he'd win.  But that Zarok chap is careful t'only meet th' flat of th' blade, an' he's fast enough that Firesight can't press him hard as he needs ter.  An' with 'em both armored, t'will be a time 'till it's over… unless one can get through a gap in th' mail'r plaates.  'Course, if Firesight uses his sword as a club, he c'n break some bones in th' fox, doncherknow.  But th' fox is too skilled f'r that."

Riala was fascinated.  She'd known much of what Loamleg had said on a subconscious level, but she'd never thought much about the strategy of dueling.  She had always just fought unthinkingly, letting bloodwrath control her motions. "Then how will it end, if they're so evenly matched?"

The grizzled veteran shook his head slowly. "They'll tire an' start makin' mistakes eventually.  Maybe it'll end with one blow; maybe they'll chip away at each other 'till one … loses.  Hard t'tell yet, y'see." His pale brown eyes narrowed abruptly. "Aha!  They're tirin' now, both of 'em.  It'll be over soon…"

An angered roar split the air as Zarok's glaive drew first blood through a chink in the armor at the badger's shoulder.  Only a shallow cut, it was still enough to provoke Firesight's rage.  Without warning, his greatsword crashed down on the fox, who almost didn't get his glaive up in time.  The huge blade glanced off of the long polearm and screeched down the finely meshed chainmail, drawing a hiss of pain from the fox.  Zarok slashed inward, turning his glaive at the last minute to catch on the badger's ear and helmet, ripping off the steel head covering and flicking it to the ground.  Blood trickled into Firesight's eyes, and he lashed out blindly, roaring his defiance.  The fox ducked nimbly under the sweeping blade and made a single deft cut at the badger lord's throat.

Firesight's battle cry died as a throaty gurgle, and he dropped his greatsword as it became too heavy to lift.  Then his red-misted eyes, already fogging in death, fixed on his lifelong enemy, and he found strength from an upwelling of hatred.  Forcing a last battlecry from his ravaged throat, he stumbled inside the long polearm's reach and grasped Zarok the Black in a spine-crushing embrace of death as he screamed his final challenge to all who would hear:

"_EULALIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"_ __

Riala leaned against the chilled stone, stunned, gold-brown eyes wide with what she'd seen. "He's dead…"

Loamleg closed his eyes, paws curled into tight fists at his sides. "Aye…" he whispered, rough voice thick with grief and tears. "An' he knew he'd be dyin', too.  _'The day a squirrel with golden tail into the mountain comes, the fox shall find the end of the badger's trail.  They both shall die 'neath the rising sun.'"_

The squirrel glanced sharply at him. "What's that from?"

"Th' prophecy on th' bally wall in th' chamber of th' badger lords," the hare said, gazing at the two bodies below.

"A squirrel with a golden tail…" Riala shook her head slowly as the reaction of the hares and badger to her appearance suddenly became clear. "That's me, isn't it?"

Loamleg drew in a slow breath, and his minute nod was all the answer she needed.  She stared out the arrow slit blankly, feeling somehow responsible for Firesight's death.  At her nearly inaudible sigh, the hare placed a reassuring paw on her shoulder. "There now, m'gel, t'wasn't y'r fault.  Y'can't outsmart fate.  Y'were just th' warnin'."

The sun was nearly full above the horizon, and the red of sunrise was beginning to fade to daylight blue.  A warm breeze had picked up, carrying the permeating ocean scent and taste of salt to the waiting defenders. "Going to storm," Riala said quietly, not replying to the hare's words.  She lowered her gaze to the vermin camp, which was finally showing signs of motion in the opening of tent flaps and the occasional wisp of campfire smoke.  She strung her bow with growing ease, stretching muscles stiff from the previous night's battle. "S'pose we'd best get ready to fight…"

The ranks of vermin lined up in formation, every eye fixed on the two bodies in the sands.  They stood there for several long moments, the breeze picking up to a stronger and colder wind, before a tall ferret in a captain's uniform strode out to the broken body of her leader.  She kneeled beside him, examining the body silently, but looked up at the hiss of sand as a black-eared hare materialized from the earth, javelin in paw. 

The ferret smiled thinly at the sight. "We've lost enough of our own t'yer hares," she said simply, before the Salamandastron sergeant could throw his weapon. "Th' fox paid us well enough, but he's dead.  We'll be leavin' this place." She nodded respectfully to the bodies of the two opponents and turned to go. "They was warriors through an' through, an' we won't see their like again.  We've both paid enough t'hate." With those last quiet words, the ferret turned and walked away from Salamandastron, and the vermin army followed.

Riala gaped at the sight. "These… are vermin?  They don't act like the ones I've fought…"

Loamleg was just as surprise, light brown eyes wide. "I've never seen th' like!  Honorable vermin… bally shocker, wot?"

The sunset's amber fires stretched across the sky, painting the fleeing gray clouds a rich gold.  In the sand below, a squirrel's rust-gold tail paled in comparison with the flaming heavens, one scarred paw lifted to the sun-touched mountain behind her in a silent salute.  A long moment passed with the waves lapping gently at the sandy shores of Salamandastron, and the squirrel turned south as the hares' thunderous farewell echoed in her ears, the ghost of a mighty warrior lending his roar to their warcry:

"_EULALIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!"  
_Chapter 4: Mossflower

            _Darkness, and cold… the perpetual frigid night of the Northlands in winter._

Father…

            _A young squirrelmaid's questioning call as the pale moon hides its face behind a cloud, blanketing the drey in darkness._

It's cold… dark…

            _Faint fear in a child's voice._

            I'll light the fire, Ria.

            _Reassuring, comforting, a strong and beloved voice, and then flames flare up, driving back the shadows… but what meets the child's eyes is not her father's smiling gaze, loving and familiar, but a death's-head snarl, an empty skull burning in a deadly pyre._

Father!

            _Embers flare and then fade to blackness, fur of night around red eyes, white fangs exposed in a sneer at the squirrelmaid's grief and fear, a cold triumphant smile baring white fangs…_

Game over, Battlecry.

            _A smug and hated voice, the whistle of arrows…_

No!  Fatheeeeeeeer!

            Gold-brown eyes snapped open to daylight, the agonized cry of loss dying on frost-chafed lips.  The only sound was the faint song of early winter's sole remaining birds, feathers fluffed against the bitter cold and the early snows.  The only sight was that of naked trees, leaves stripped by the autumn, mingled with dark pine, their ever-green boughs weighted down with snow.  Softly falling flakes hissed gently on the dying embers of the previous night's campfire, a sordid reminder of her nightmare.

            Riala Goldentail wrinkled her nose as a large flake landed on it, sending a chill across her face.  She shook herself thoroughly, rust-gold tail puffing out with the vigorous motion, snow cascading off red-brown fur.  A shiver ran through the wiry squirrel as a gust of frigid winter wind tossed powdery snow into the air.

            "Should've taken that mouse's offer of a winter coat," she muttered past chattering teeth, tufted ears laying flat against her head in a vain attempt to warm them. "Never thought it could be this cold this far south…"

            Another flurry of snowflakes hissed against the embers that still clung vainly to a semblance of life, and Riala kicked snow over the dying fire.  Stamping scarred footpaws on the cold ground, she brushed off the dune-brown tunic from Salamandastron and picked up her dagger and roce from their places by the remains of the fire.  A frown played across her face as she tucked them into her fraying belt.  She still hadn't gotten a new forest-shaded tunic, not that it would do much good for camouflage in the wintertime, and she had no other clothing besides her sleeveless tunic.  If she got into a fight, she'd have some trouble winning… Her rust-gold tail flicked from side to side in another attempt to keep warm as she began to walk further down the north path, footpaws dragging slightly in the snow.

            "No food in the woods… foolish counting on that, it's winter after all…" The squirrel's rough voice matched the wind in its hoarseness, grating on the winter air falteringly, her stomach riding with an answering rumble. "Snow covering the Longclaws' trail…" The rasp thickened to a growl as she spoke the name, a spark of renewed life flaring red in gold-brown eyes, then fading in disgust. "And now I'm talking to myself."

            "'Ey, go on an' keep talking, bushyfool," a nasal voice said, a sneer obvious in the tone.  Riala whirled to see a scrawny rat fem, a curved saber at her side and a thin and much-patched cloak over her grimy fur.  She smirked at the squirrel's skeptical appraisal, taking it for apprehension. "Th' name's Bluddfang, an' I'm th' greatest swordsrat this side o' th' Broadstream."

            "An' I'm Muddclaw, 'er mate an' th' best beast wi' a whip an' chain in Mossflower!" A nondescript rat with mud-brown fur and a mess of scars about his face stepped out of the scant brush with a toothy grin, a length of chain rattling from one paw and a whip cracking and whirling like a live thing from the other.

            The squirrel watched both filthy rats warily, noting with a sinking feeling that both seemed well fed and well-rested despite their seedy appearances, and that they moved with a graceful ease that supported their boasts.  She could probably match either one of them, and perhaps even defeat both without too much pain on her part… _if _she were as rested and well fed as they.  As it was, though…

            She shook her head minutely, pushing aside the doubts.  There were only three options open to her: bluff her way out, flee, or fight.  Riala smiled wryly at the thought.  She'd never been able to bluff convincingly, and she hadn't run from a battle in her life.  It was really no choice at all… "What do you want?" she asked, one paw straying to her roce as she slowly backed away to place her back against a massive oak.

            "Wot d'you think?  Yore vittles an' yore weapons o'course!" the female said.

            "And what makes you think I have food, wormtail?" She smirked slightly, insolently, her other paw creeping for her dagger, only her lashing tail betraying her tension.

            "Uh…" This question seemed to confuse the male, and his red-brown eyes swung to his mate.

            "Don't matter," she replied with a sneer. "Ya've got weapons. Hand 'em over or else we eats squirrel f'r dinner!"

            Riala's mouth creased into a thin line, a parody of a smile. "Afraid I can't do that, mangyfur."

            The rat fem snarled, drawing her sword in a single fluid movement and leaping at the squirrel. "Then die, fool!"

            Riala had been expecting the attack, twisting away at the last moment and drawing her dagger, slicing across the rat's leg.  Chain clinked behind her and she whirled, jerking her roce free from her belt in time to catch the chain around the stick and the whip across her face.  It just missed her eye, slashing fire over her muzzle and drawing a hiss of pain from her throat.  The male weasel grinned, freeing his chain from her weapon with a yank and lashing out, and above the whirling iron his eyes flicked beyond her head to something behind her.  She didn't think, didn't have time to think – she just reacted and turned and _leapt, _racing partway up the oak's trunk.  The male's chain thudded into the thick wood, followed by the thunk of a steel blade.

            The squirrel hung onto the trunk with three paws, her dagger held in the fourth, her roce dangling by its cord.  Her starving muscles quivered with exertion, a miserable sensation she'd rarely felt, and her frosted lungs burned with the constant contact of the cold winter air.  She stared down at the two rats below her, their weapons ready as they grinned up at the warrioress.

            _I could run… they can't catch me in the trees…_

The thought was a traitorous thread of weakness in her cold-dulled mind, and she dismissed it immediately.  _Have to take one out quickly, before they can team up on me again.  _Without warning, she leapt from the tree onto the rat fem, dagger glinting in the fading sunlight… but the rat's boasts hadn't been idle.  The swordsrat reacted with barely a second of hesitation, her blade flashing upwards as Riala's dagger sliced down.

            Pain slashed through her, engulfing her senses in fire spreading outward from her chest, barely hearing the agonized scream of a soul being torn asunder. _"Bluddfaaaaaang!" _The name ended in a strangled sob, and the male rat shoved the squirrel carelessly off of his fallen mate, sending waves of flame through her bleeding body.  Darkness crept about her vision, but she fought unconsciousness, knowing it meant her death.  The pain-ravaged face of the rat spoke her fate clearly, and he turned that face her way, tear-wet eyes smoldering with grieving fury. "Y'killed me Bluddfang!" he sobbed, paws closing about his two weapons.  The rattle of chain and the hiss of the whip wove a song of death in Riala's ears.

            _Father… I'm sorry._

She could do nothing but curl into a fast-weakening ball, rust-gold tail wrapped over her bleeding muzzle in a vain attempt at protection from the biting whip and bone-shattering chain.

            _I failed…_

The chain crashed down, and the snapping of bone hurtled her into darkness.

_Darkness... emptiness..._

Spinning, circling in a void, nothingness stretching on forever, seeing nothing, feeling nothing.

_Is this death?_

A dim light ahead, like the palest glimmer of sunlight through the thick canopy of a dense forest...

_Dark Forest._

Heavy gates, dark and deadly, holding back the souls of all time, closed on life... now swinging open on silent hinges to welcome the weary soul.

_Death... peace?_

Obsidian, shadowed, cold, inviting. Opened gates giving a glimpse of a forest, ancient and silent, unchanging.

_So easy to just accept it..._

A tired spirit, hardened and aged by battle and hate, driven forward by sheer will and a fierce desire for vengeance. To this worn-out soul, the temptation to accept the final rest offered by the gates of Dark Forest was an almost physical pull, nigh on irresistable.

_Too easy._

Balking, not trusting the ease of death, long experience speaking against taking the easiest road. Ease led to false security, which led to death...

_But I'm already dying. Why not give in?_

Teetering on the edge of a blade, blindfolded, unable to see on which side lay disaster, where to step next, guided by the inexhorable pull of the open gates of death. Almost giving in, and then...

_I can't die yet._

Remembering a face that haunted every night, hate flaring up at the memory of flat dark eyes and a taunting voice, a bloodied scimitar in a long-clawed paw. Remembering the thud of so many arrows, a child's scream, a wolverine's command. Remembering an oath made before a funeral pyre.

_I have not yet taken revenge._

Seeing a long-lost, much-loved face, waiting between twin gates, and almost succumbing despite having made a decision. Saluting, respect and farewell and promise in the military gesture, turning away as it is returned.

_I cannot die yet!_

Hate and regret clashing, giving way to unreasoning fury and a fierce desire to live, if only to complete a self-assigned task, born of the vengeance-lust that dictated the soul's path. Shee force of an adominable will surging against the allure of death, away from the obsidian gates, falling into the black nothingness of dreamless sleep.

She opened her eyes to firelight and pain. For a single panicky moment she thought the forest had caught aflame, that she was burning alive - but the light was cast by a single source, and there were blankets covering her. She was indoors... beyond that, she knew nothing.

_Dark Forest would have made a more comfortable bed._ It was a wry thought that held not a trace of sincerity. She had amade her decision and there was no looking back on what might have been. She had to look to the now, and that meant finding out where she was and what she was to do about it.

The squirrel's gaze moved to the side, but it was all that could move. An attempt to turn her head to follow sent stars bursting across her vision, sucking air from battered lungs with a gasp of pain. She held still for several long moments, eyes closed tight, waiting for the waves of pain to retreat far enough for reasonable thought. Finally her lids cracked open again and she took in the stark surroundings.

She was in a bed, the mattress firm, the blankets heavy. The walls were red sandstone, but those could scarcely be seen for all the shelves of jars and hanging herbs. The sharp tang of medicine permeated the air, tickling Riala's nose. An infirmary then, part of a large sandstone building. Her nose twitched again, but the room was devoid of the musky scent that accompanied most vermin. A goodbeast's place? Perhaps...

Across her mind's eye, without warning, flashed the vision of a whirling chain and a cracking whip. Her scarred and bruised hide shuddered with painful memory. The weasel had the look of death in his gaze when he fell upon her; he would not have stopped until he knew she was dead. Somebeast had stopped him then, likely permanently. That same somebeast had probably brought her to this place... wherever it was.

The faint creak of a door swinging open on its hinges caused Riala's muscles to tense, one paw twitching towards her waist, but even that slight motion set fire to her nerves, immobilizing her. A soft swear escaped her chapped lips. She would have to face whatever came unarmed and helpless; she had to trust her captors or hosts or whichever they were. Trust... not something she was used to.

"So, our wintertime visitor is awake, hm?"

The speaker was a mouse, her tone crisp and her manner plain, her light brown gaze sharp and carrying a constant hint of disapproval. The squirrel watched warily as the mouse stood over her, a skeptical light in her eyes. "Hmph. Well I told that Brook you were a lost cause, more'n half dead, an' I wouldn't be able to save you without help of a miracle. You're stronger'n I thought, bushtail."

"What..." The attempt at a question scraped through Riala's parched throat and came out as a nearly inaudable squeak, like the protesting of cartwheels forced to turn on rusted axles.

The mouse raised a thin eyebrow and picked up a glass of water, holding it carefully to her patient's lips as Riala swallowed, the cool liquid washing away the cottony taste in her mouth. "Thanks," she whispered, finding it somewhat easier to speak. "What... happened?" Her ribs protested with the breath required to vocalize, but she forced the pain to the back of her mind as she waited for the mouse to answer.

She smoothed her forest-green habit and watched the squirrel closely, then nodded. "I don't rightly know what happened; Brook and Tamlin didn't waste time telling me, but they came in with blood on their clothes and that says 'battle' to my mind. You were covered in blood an' it was a pretty mess cuttin' that tunic off, I'll tell you know. Big wound in your chest, just missed the lung. Near all your ribs broken. Broken arm, broken wrist, broken legs, just about everything broken. Whipmarks everywhere. Half dead from cold an' hunger an' the blood loss should've finished the job." The healer tilted her head, fixing the squirrel with a curious gaze. "Should've died despite all the work I did on you - piecin' bones back together, bandaging wounds, forcin' water'n food'n medicine down your throat. Never expected t'see you open your eyes."

The calm, matter-of-fact listing of injuries wrapped about Riala's tired mind like a blanket, dragging her back into unconsciousness. She fought it, forcing out another question. "Will I... fight again?"

"Huh." The mouse rolled her eyes to the herb-hung ceiling in mingled exasperation and disbelief. "Half dead an' the crazy beast wants to know if she'll fight again! I tell you, warriors..." She shook her head. "If I were you, I'd just be happy to be alive, I would."

"But... I'm alive... so I can fight..." Somehow it was important, even vital for her to get out that truth. "The only reason... I didn't enter... Dark Forest..."

Surprise faded into pity in the mouse healer's gaze. Pity for her condition or for that which ruled her life... it was impossible to tell. "I'd not be the one to be askin', warrior," she said quietly. "After all, I was wrong about you livin'. If you've a strong enough will to come back from Dark Forest, mayhap you've a strong enough will t'get better again. But ... t'will be quite a time before you do."

Again the "thank you" formed on silent lips, and Riala let darkness engulf her.


	2. The North Caves

Chapter Two: The North Caves

            Season followed season.  Riala stayed on the trail of the Longclaws' horde the entire time, helping goodbeasts and fighting vermin.  As she gained more experience, her skill with her roce and dagger grew.  The squirrel had followed Nightdeath west through the cold, thinly forested northern sector of Mossflower, and was gaining quite the reputation in that area.

            The warrioress was traveling at a brisk pace through the treetops, hearing but not really noticing the noise of forest life.  She suddenly halted, motionless, ears straining for a noise as the heavy silence fell upon her awareness.  There was no sound save the wind rustling dry autumn leaves.  Something was wrong.  _Something _had frightened the birds and the insects into rare silence…  Riala realized what it was when a harsh, whining voice grated against her ears.

"Gimme that food blinkeye!"

Her gold-brown eyes darkened, and she crept silently through the trees, dropping lightly to the ground in order to walk more quietly.  She eased her stick out of her belt and grasped the coil of rope in her free paw.  A mole's rustic accent drifted to her tufted ears, and she followed the sounds of the argument to a mound of earth with a door at one end.  Nearby, a brook gurgled on its merry way to larger bodies of water, silvery forms flashing within its depths.

"Good decision, mole," a weasel's nasal voice sneered. "Now stand right quiet so's we c'n put these chains on you four."

_Slavers!  _Riala's eyes narrowed dangerously as she ran a short circuit around the clearing's edge to check for hidden guards.  She found none, and she turned her attention back to the mole home.  It was not large- no more than two or three vermin could fit in with a mole family.  Slavers were rarely expert fighters.  She could take them without too much trouble if she had the element of surprise…

The squirrel paused, thinking on her options, and then took up a position outside the door.  When they came out, she'd be waiting.  There was the _clink _of chains, and the _swish-thwack _of a whip.  A mole grunted in pain, and Riala's paw tightened on her roce, jaw set. _Vermin, _she growled mentally, all her hatred packed into that one word.

"Move on, let's go, outside!" the weasel ordered.  Another whiplash, and this time it was the scream of a dibbun that reached the waiting squirrel's ears.  Her muscles tensed, quivering with fury at the cruelty of the slavers.  The door opened, and a weasel calmly strode out, his whip twitching like a live snake from his paw.

Riala's paw shot out, and she grabbed his muzzle, pulling him back.  Her dagger slit his throat, and he died without a sound. A chained adult mole came through the door, and he stifled a cry of shock and fright when he saw the squirrel.  Her teeth were bared, her eyes misted in red, and blood dripped from her dagger.  The dead weasel was slumped on the ground, shoved out of the way.

"Move," the squirrel hissed. "Stay quiet!" He nodded shakily, walking forward.

_Swish-thwack!  _A whip snaked out, striking a struggling molebabe across the shoulders.  She shrieked, back arced in pain.  The lash struck the father mole across the face as he turned to help his daughter.

It was too much for Riala, who was already teetering on the verge of bloodwrath.  "_Rilaaaar!" _The battle-cry ripped from her throat, and she raced into the hut, leaping over the heads of the mole family and striking the slaver in the chest with her footpaws.  His breath left him with an audible whoosh of air as he fell, and the enraged squirrel raised her roce to strike.

"Mercy!  Don't kill me!" the weasel yelped, fear widening his eyes and strangling his voice to a squeak.

"Not in fron' of th' dibbuns, please, miz!" the molewife pleaded.

Slowly the warrior's muscles relaxed and the red mist of near-berserk fury  faded from her eyes. "Ye're right," Riala hissed to the weasel, her normally imperceptible northern accent growing stronger with her fury. "Death's tae good for ye.  I should chain ye oop an' use yon lash on _ye _until ye've noo a scrap o' fur on your back.  Then-"

"No, please!  I won't never go near a whip agin!" he squealed.

"Like I believe that!"Riala growled scornfully, her rage and accent beginning to abate. "Where's your keys?"

            A little later, the weasel was in chains and the mole family was freed.  The molewife, whose name was Soilfree, worked at bandaging the wounds of her husband and dibbuns.  Riala set to work cleaning and honing her dagger, sending occasionally dark looks at the quivering weasel.

            "Thankee koindly, miz," Durtfloyer, the father, said to the squirrel.

            "Riala Goldentail," the warrior told him, not looking up from her blade.

            "Then… thankee, miz Ri'la," the mole corrected himself.

            Their whip wounds bandaged, the two molebabes, Soilfloyer and Durtfree, came up to the squirrel and gazed at her with curiosity.

            "Yurr, 'ow'd you'm get so gudd at foightin', miz?" Durtfree inquired.

            "Hurr!  You'm taked yon vurmint oot wunnerfully!" Soilfloyer added, wonder on her face.

            Riala sheathed her dagger and dropped her whetstone in the pouch at her side that had long replaced the cumbersome backpack.  She leaned forward, looking at the two seriously. "I became a fighter through practice and necessity.  It's not a bad idea to _learn _how to fight, but take my advice- don't be a warrior for a living.  Grow up, raise a family, live a life of peace… but fight only when you have to.  A warrior's life is not as glamorous as some say."

            "Then whoi do _you _be a wurryer, miz Ri'la?" Durtfree asked, confusion plain on his young features.

            The squirrel looked away. "You wouldn't understand." Her voice was flat, her expression hard as stone as she spoke her reply.

            "Mebbe we would," the molebabes' mother objected quietly. "Whoi do you be a wurrior?

            "Because I have to!" The four words exploded from her mouth, almost a cry against the question and the memories it brought to the surface.  She stood and walked swiftly away, gold-brown eyes holding grief though her face was stone.

            Soilfree was a perceptive mole, and she saw the shadows in Riala's eyes.  She gathered her children to her. "Burr, toime for bed, dibbuns," she said, hustling them away. "Cumm yurr!"

            She returned minutes later to find Riala savagely sharpening her dagger. "Miz Ri'la?"  The squirrel did not answer, did not seem to hear anything besides the fey voices of her past.  The molewife placed a comforting digging claw on the warrior's shoulder.  Wiry muscles tensed, then relaxed as Riala sheathed her dagger.

            "Yes, Soilfree?" the squirrel asked.

            "Somethin' bothers ye," the mole said. "Whoi _are _you'm a wurrior?"

            The squirrel rose with a sigh, walking over to the wall where the weasel huddled, footpaws making no sound on the earthen floor. "A wolverine, Nightdeath Longclaws by name, killed my father," she said finally, flatly. "Four seasons back.  They were dueling, and my father was winning… until the Longclaws signaled with three short growls.  His ferret, fox… _and weasel _archers shot from the bushes.  Nobeast can dodge that many arrows."

            She glared down at the quivering slaver coldly. "I vowed revenge."

            "I didn't kill y'r pater!" the weasel whimpered in protest.

            "No," Riala growled. "You just flog dibbuns." She touched the weasel's whip that was coiled in her belt, lowering her voice so that her hissed words reached only his ears. "When we're beyond earshot of this place, I'm going to use this!"

            The squirrel turned to Soilfree as the slaver fainted dead away. "It's time for me to leave."

            The molewife nodded. "Would you'm loike summ vittlers?"

            The warrior shook her head. "I can get all the food I need from the woods." She turned to the weasel again and dragged at his chains, pulling him upright and forcing him to consciousness. "Let's go," she growled.  The slaver whimpered, but had no choice other than to obey.

            They were soon out of earshot of the mole home.  Riala slowly uncoiled the whip, face expressionless. "You'll tell me what I need to know," she told him. "And if I think you're lying, I'll give you a few lashings to get the truth out of you.  If I find you've played me false, you'll feel my dagger in your gut."

            He gulped, eyes wide with fear. "I – I thought woodlanders 'ave _honor!" _the slaver protested.

            She smiled, but the expression was a cold one, with hatred blazing behind it. "What honor I had was killed with my father seasons ago," the squirrel replied harshly. "Now get moving towards your slaver camp."

            Uncertainty flickered in the weasel's eyes, but he soon replied. "Don't 'ave one."

            _Swish!  Thwack!  _The whip fell across his back with all of Riala's force behind it.  He arched his back and screamed in pain, but the squirrel's face might have been stone for all the expression it showed. "I wasn't bluffing, slaver," she hissed. "Where's your camp?"

            He gulped air with the beginnings of a sob in his throat. "I said – I don't 'ave one!"

            The whip fell twice; the weasel shrieked twice. "Don't lie to me!" the squirrel snarled. "You were taking the moles as slaves.  Slave bands have more than two slavers, and more than a few slaves!" He hesitated, balking, and then arched his back again with the lash of the whip.  Riala held his neck chain taught to keep him from collapsing.

            "I'll tell!" the vermin choked out past the confining iron. "I'll tell!"

            The warrior dropped the chain and he fell to the ground, sobbing for breath, gagging on his own phlegm. "You'd better, vermin," she growled, hatred thick in her tone. "By Dark Forest's gates – you'd better!"

            With the threat of the lash behind him, the weasel- whose name was Darkeye- wasted no time in showing Riala the location of his band.  They were on a small ridge overlooking a cliff riddled with caves.  The squirrel remembered tales of the caves, once the Caves of Luke, as that was the mouse leader at one time… but that was long ago.  Now they were simply named the North Caves.

            She looked at the weasel and deliberately slid her knife out of its sheath, steel scraping on scabbard with an ominous hiss. "Tell them to drop their weapons," she said, referring to the four vermin lounging about a campfire. "And try to sound natural."

            Darkeye swallowed hard as the newly sharpened dagger pricked his jugular.  He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a call that easily reached the slavers' ears. "Hallo the camp!  What're you doin' loungin' about?"

            The slavers leapt up hastily, guilt clear on their grimy faces. "Erm, er, nothin' sir!" one weasel stammered.

            Another elbowed him sharply. "Wot Ragfur means, sir, is that we was guardin' th' camp!"

            A third nodded eagerly. "Wot Thintail said!"

            Darkeye grimaced. "Drop yore weapons," he ordered. "Throw 'em my way, but don't hit me."

            Several assorted weapons landed in the dust before the squirrel and her prisoner with a metallic clatter.  Darkeye stared at the equipment in mingled disbelief and disgust. "Surely yore smarter'n t'throw yore weapons away!" the weasel muttered, momentarily forgetting his predicament in his disgust.

            "Enough banter," Riala hissed, her dagger still touching his neck. "Step into view.  _Slowly."_

            The slavers gaped in shock when their leader walked forwards, chained and bleeding from several whip-marks.  Their eyes went from the weasel to the golden-tailed squirrel that held him captive, widening in surprise and shocked recognition.  They'd heard the tales of the merciless squirrel and her hunger for vermin lives…

            "Goldentail!" Thintail gasped. "_Here?"_

"Quit your whining and free the slaves, or your leader dies," Riala growled, ignoring their shock. They nodded as one and hurriedly unchained the ten wretched slaves, some with broken spirits, others with hearts filled with hatred for the slavers, and some just glad to be free.  Slowly the slaves walked towards the squirrel, their freedom still not quite sinking in.

            "Pick up a weapon, each of you, and check the slavers for hidden weapons and keys," Riala told them. "Chain them up so they can't escape."

            Faces grim, the ex-slaves followed her orders eagerly, being none too gentle in their handling of those who were once their masters.  A young hedgehog, barely older than the molebabes Riala had recently aided, looked at Darkeye's bleeding back with cold brown eyes.

            "You did that to him?" he asked.  She nodded silently.  The hedgehog's face was stone as his gaze went from the squirrel to the weasel. "Good," he said flatly.

            _And I thought warriors grew up quickly, _the squirrel thought, watching the ex-slave. _Slaves grow up faster, and turn out harder…_

Soon the slavers were chained securely.  Riala tossed her borrowed whip to the ground. "Are all of you staying here?" she asked.

            They looked from the whip to the slavers.  One ex-slave, a half-grown badger, stepped forwards and picked up the lash. "We've unfinished business," he rumbled. "The slavers would capture more if we let them live."

            The squirrel nodded, no expression on her scarred features. "I understand." She turned and walked down towards the North Caves, the screams of slavers getting their due echoing in her ears.

            The caves seemed empty, but on closer scrutiny it was obvious that somebeasts had left in a hurry.  Sand had been tossed over still-warm embers, and scraps of cloth could be found on the rocks.  Riala's paw tightened on her roce as she looked at the signs of a hasty exit, and then glanced about the rocks.

            _Ssss-thunk!_

A gray-fletched arrow landed at her footpaws, and the squirrel jumped, twisting backwards and landing behind a large rock. "I thought goodbeasts inhabited these caves!" she shouted angrily.

            "They do," a voice said mildly behind her.  The warrior whirled, releasing her short throwing club from instinct and reflex, but jerking on the cord as she saw that the speaker was a dark brown mouse.  The stick halted in mid-air and fell back towards Riala from the yank on its cord that had jerked it short.

            "Don't _do _that!" the squirrel gasped, picking up the weapon and coiling the rope. "I could have killed you!"

            He was slightly shaken, but concealed his shock quickly. "You're right, treejumper.  I shouldn't sneak up on warriors.  I ought to know that, being one myself." The stocky, muscular mouse stuck out a callused paw. "Welcome to the North Caves.  I'm Mark the Warrior.  I apologize for the hostility, but vermin were sighted nearby earlier today, and we can't be too careful."

            She nodded and shook the proffered paw, noting the strong grip of a swordsbeast. "I'm Riala Goldentail – not 'treejumper,'" the squirrel said mildly.

            The mouse arched one eyebrow. "My apologies, Goldentail."

            Gold-brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Do you _try _to annoy otherbeasts?  I dislike formalities, Mark – can I call you Mark?  Or would you prefer Warrior?"

            "All right, all right, you've made your point!" Mark raised his paws in mock surrender. "Riala, then?  Is that better?"

            She glared at him a moment longer, but had to laugh at the good-natured mouse's actions. "Much."

            Dinner was a leisurely affair.  The group of North Cave warriors laughed and chatted as they ate the seafood that made up most of their diet.  When the meal dwindled to crumbs and the clatter of wood utensils on shell bowls subsided, they began to tell stories.  One told of the time he'd infiltrated a ship disguised as a searat.  Another told of how he'd tricked two rats into fighting one another.  Riala noted that all the tales were humorous ones of trickery and wit, none of war and death and losing friends or family.  All the warriors skirted that subject carefully, none wanting to spoil the good mood.

            Finally one warriormaid, a wiry black mouse, turned to the golden-tailed squirrel. "And what of you, Riala Goldentail?" she called. "Does the traveler have a tale to tell?"

            The squirrel's face hardened, and when she again spoke, her voice carried the frost of the harsh northern winters in its chilling tone. "I'm afraid you'd find none of my stories very humorous."

            The collected warriorbeasts- all scarred, fit, competent creatures- wore grim faces of understanding. "No need to worry," a burly otter rumbled. "We've used up all our light stories by now.  Might as well learn a bit about a newcomer."

            Riala nodded and slowly stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor.  Her voice rose and fell as she told her story; her eyes filled with pain and then hardened with cold hatred as the tale progressed.  She told of her father, the Longclaws' treachery, her first kill.  She spoke of following Nightdeath, helping the mole family, and freeing the slaves.

 "…and now my journey leads here," she ended.  Suddenly very tired from the emotional draining of her tale and the physical stress she'd been through in the past day, the squirrel sank wearily into her seat.  The warriors were silent for a few moments as they digested the story- silent until Mark stood and nodded grimly to Riala.

"A tale that mirrors the ones many of us have," he said, jaw tight with a still-painful memory. "Yet it's better not to dwell on such things … It's getting late.  We'd best turn in."

A murmur of "ayes" swept through the room, and there was a noisy clatter as the group pushed back their chairs and rose from their seats.  Chatter gradually filled the air, replacing the stifling, uncomfortable silence.  Mark turned to Riala, studying her for a moment as if deciding whether or not she should hear what he had to say.  Finally he gave an almost imperceptible nod. "The wolverine you seek has passed by here, but as he did not interfere with us, we did not bother him.  He went south and west."

The squirrel's grim features remained immobile, but the gratitude in gold-brown eyes was enough for the northern warrior.  He nodded to her again and turned, starting for the door, only to be intercepted by an out-of-breath scout bursting through the entrance.

"Searats!  It's the _Blacktooth, _sir!  They're comin' to attack!" he gasped, a paw pressed to his heaving side as he tried to regain his wind.

Dismay mingled with a harsh anger in Mark's face.  It was an ever-present hatred that Riala recognized all too well – one she saw every time she looked into a mirror.  "The _Blacktooth!  _Are you certain?  Captain Deathclaw's ship?" When he spoke the name Deathclaw, Mark's fury seemed to intensify, causing the messenger to flinch away from the naked hatred in the mouse leader's dark brown eyes.

"Yessir!  I recognized the black sails at once," the scout replied, no hint of uncertainty in his clear voice.

Mark slammed his fist down on the heavy table's wood, causing dishes to rattle startlingly. "I knew this would happen!" His words might lead one to believe the warrior to be afraid or reluctant to fight the wavevermin, but his harsh tone and the battlelight in his eyes spoke differently. "Which direction is it coming from?"

"West, sir."

The mouse's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, and suddenly he seemed far older than his seasons. "West… by the fur… Most likely he came from Tefkar' palace.  He'll have double the army…" At that moment, Riala saw with a sudden strange insight how hard it must be to command warriors.  How hard it would be to have to deal with the guilt and the grief whenever a soldier died.  A leader was responsible for the creatures that followed him.  The squirrel felt sympathy for the mouse warrior, but knew with a certainty that cut clear through her that she would never want to lead creatures into war, however glamorous the tales made it seem.

Mark straightened then, face set in stony determination, though grief flickered as dark shadows in his brown eyes. "Catapult!  Reysa!  Quickblade!  Fildo!  Callot!" His voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the background noise of the room like a finely honed sword, all his earlier hesitation gone.  Riala realized, though, that his unswerving decision was only an act, put on for the benefit of the North Cave warriors and their morale.

The five named goodbeasts hurried over to Mark.  One was a burly gray squirrel; one was a wiry mouse; one a dark-colored badger; the fourth an otter; and the last was a lanky hare. "Yessir?" they asked in near-unison.

"Fildo, take the non-combatants and children to the clifftop," Mark commanded, snapping out orders with rapid-fire speed. "Cellot, take a fourth of the army, half missilebeasts and half paw-to-paw fighters, to Deathclaw's left flank.  Nifo, take another fourth to his right.  Reysa, take a fourth around to his back and wait in the rocks.  When I blow the trumpet, fire as many times as you can. On the second blast, send in the paw-to-paw fighters.  Go!" The four warriors saluted, faces grim, and jogged off as they called out orders. "Catapult, take one of your rock-throwers and three fighters to the ridge.  Wait until the oarslaves are out, then destroy the _Blacktooth._" The squirrel nodded and bounded away. "Isran!"

A burly mouse ran up. "Sir?"

"Take a score of warriors in the longboats around the rocks as the _Blacktooth _comes in.  Stay out of sight and board the ship after the main vermin force leaves.  Free the oarslaves and get out fast.  Catapult is on the ridge, so you'll have to hurry," Mark warned.  Isran nodded his understanding and dashed away, calling out the names of his chosen fighters.

"I'll fight, too," Riala offered.

Mark shook his head. "No, Riala.  This is the problem of my warriors and myself.  You go on your way."

The squirrel laughed, a sound filled with false mirth that sounded hollow to her ears. "_Your _fight?  You mean you're not going to share?" Her expression turned grim, uncompromising, and all the lightness was gone from her tone with her next words. "I must repay you, Mark."

He glared at her, the tension in the air between them almost palpable. "I can see you will fight no matter what I say," he growled, paw clenched on his sword's hilt. "Very well, but Deathclaw is _mine!" _He spun on his heel and stalked outside to gather his section of warriors.  Riala watched him go, wondering what had provoked his display of hostility.  Nerves, stretched tight by the upcoming battle?  Fear, that the squirrel would rob him of revenge?  The warrior wasn't sure- but it didn't matter.  Roce in paw, she followed the Warrior.

To battle.

The only members of the North Cave warriors visible to the sea were those of the small section that Mark commanded.  The beach was as quiet as the forest after first frost while the ship lowered anchor, and Riala felt that a pass with her dagger through the air would snap the tension with one touch when more than two hundred searats boated ashore, unaware of the hidden warriors. 

From their hiding spot in the wave-worn beachside rocks, Isran and his crew rowed out silently to the ship, their oars making almost no sound as they entered and exited the seawater.  The lookouts died silently, slumping onto the wooden deck with only a harsh death rattle from a punctured long or slashed throat.  A few tense minutes passed, and then Isran's team reappeared with several bedraggled slaves.  No sooner were their boats away from the ship than Catapult's crew had cut loose a stone with a wild yell.

In shock and surprise, the searats just then reaching the beach twisted around in their longboats and stared at the huge boulder.  The stone seemed to hang in the air as it lazily reached its apex, and then began to fall.  It struck the _Blacktooth _amidships, ripping into the hull with a sickening thud.  The torn ship was taking on water fast, but still rested on the surface.  A second stone remedied that, the sound of splintering wood drowning out the outraged yells of the on looking vermin and the dying shrieks of beams shifting beyond their ability to bend.

The wavevermin reached the shore and poured out, yelling their wild rage. "_Maaaaaaark!" _one rat shouted, a yell that was almost a scream. "You'll _pay _for what you did to my ship, you coward!" The rat towered a full head over the rest of the searats, his scimitar glinting in the pale light of the full moon.

Mark raised his trumpet, a ram's discarded horn, and the blast cut across the searats' yells.  Arrows sliced into the tight pack of vermin, easy targets on the open beach.  Screams rent the air as they fell, but Deathclaw pressed his vermin on, rage contorting his already twisted features.  The enraged crew of the sunken _Blacktooth _obeyed, charging the rocks where the North Cave warriors were hidden.  Mark hastily blew a second blast on the ram's horn, signaling the charge.  The North Cave warriors, along with Riala, raced forwards with a combined shout of mingled war cries and fell upon the wavescum.

The fighting was a maelstrom of yells and screams and blood and death.  Riala was used to a more guerilla style of warfare- not this all-out bloodfest.  Even so, she was accustomed to killing, and a tight-packed horde only made it easier to take vermin life.  Her roce whirled, cracking skulls, breaking arms, splitting faces.  Its dark brown surface was soon soaked with blood.  Her dagger thrust where her short club would not work, and the brown and forest green tunic was soon darkened with red-black liquid, both vermin blood and the squirrel's own.

Caught up in the vicious, unthinking, unfeeling, whirling intensity of the battle, Riala's eyes became veiled with the red of bloodwrath.  The adrenaline pumping through her veins, the pain of her wounds, the sight of dying goodbeasts- it all combined to driver past thinking and past feeling into the berserker rage that drove away all reason.  Several of the North Cave warriors were the same way as they hacked through the seavermin, heedless of wounds.

A sudden lack of targets gave the squirrel pause, and the red began to fade from her gold-brown eyes.  She was on the fringe of the battle, outside the tight-packed fight where her deadly roce had carried her.  Yet it wasn't only she who stood on the outside- two vermin had also broken free of the turmoil of battle.  The two rats saw her at the same moment that she noticed them.  The three fighters abruptly crouched, each bleeding heavily from various wounds, their weapons ready.

Riala smiled, more of a baring of teeth than an actual grin.  Her eyes were beginning to redden again. "Come to fight or run, wavescum?" she rasped in a voice raw from yelling.

They looked at each other, and then at the red-brown squirrel.  Two of them and one of her.  They advanced, grinning, and she waited, roce in one paw, bloodied dagger on the other.  They were a paws-length away from her and slashing with blood-stained cutlasses and…

…she wasn't there.  Riala had dodged away and raced behind them with the speed and agility that is the trademark of a squirrel.  Her dagger flashed in the moonlight and buried itself in one rat's back.  He gasped, the last breath he'd ever take, and fell heavily to the ground.  The second searat stared from Riala to his comrade and back again.

"Naow it be ye an' me," the warrioress said with a grin, a macabre expression of death's advance.  Her normally imperceptible northern accent was much more marked- the signal that she was at her most dangerous.

The rat snarled and charged, slashing wildly.  Riala blocked with her roce, and the hard wood was barely nicked from the cutlass' bite.  She swung the stick while the wavescum was still confused, cracking his head with intense force and sending him crumpling in a heap.

The battle was dying down, the North Cave warriors emerging triumphant- but at a terrible cost.  Almost as many goodbeasts lay dead as vermin.  Riala looked about for an enemy, and finding none, her wounds began to make themselves felt with a vengeance.  She swayed on her feet, and then crumpled with a groan of pain, the ground meeting her along with painless unconsciousness.

"Good, thou art awakening at last."

Riala groaned as the voice pounded through her tufted ears to her head, sending pain shooting through her skull and then her entire body.  A cold beaker was placed to her lips. "Drink!" somebeast ordered.  Riala didn't have the strength to resist, but she gagged on the vile medicine as it went down.  It certainly brought her around quickly enough, feeling like fire in her empty stomach.

"Yaaagh!  What're you trying to do, kill me?  I'd rather death by a vermin blade than by drinking that stuff!" she spluttered as soon as she'd finished coughing.  The squirrel opened her eyes at last, glaring at the mouse that had fed her the potion – _poison, _Riala corrected herself, grimacing at the vile aftertaste.

"It gives ye strength," the dark brown mouse told her, "and ye need strength to heal thyself."

The golden-tailed squirrel blinked, clearing the last clouds of sleep from her eyes. "But does it have to taste so _horrible?"_

"Aye," the healer replied calmly, "for 'tis sore harmful to the body when taken overmuch, and if it held a sweet taste, thou would want much of it, would ye not?"

Riala grimaced and inspected her wounds, which were healing fairly well. "I suppose you know what you're doing," she said dubiously, rewrapping the bandages she'd removed.  The squirrel huddled in her sheets and looked about the infirmary cave for her tunic.  The white shift she'd been placed in wasn't exactly warm, nor fit for travel use. "Where's my tunic, healer?"

"My name be Sablepaw," the mouse told her, "not 'healer.'  And _ye _are not yet healed enough to be wandering again."

"It's good enough," Riala groused, swinging her footpaws carefully over the side of the bed and standing up gingerly.  She ached all over, and the wound in her throwing arm throbbed painfully.  With Sablepaw looking on disapprovingly, Riala hobbled over to a mirror and peered into it.

The squirrel in the mirror was nearly unrecognizable.  Her ear had been sliced nearly in half, but stitched back together.  A white bandage was wrapped around her head to cover a nastily deep cut on her cheek.  Her left eye was discolored from a blow in the battle.  A long gash, slowly healing, ran from her shoulder to her elbow, and a second gash was across her right thigh.  Riala grimaced and prodded her nose with one scarred paw. "What a sight," she commented wryly. "Any vermin who sees _this _face won't wait to fight- he'll probably just take off screaming."

"An' it please thee, squirrel," the healer said, sarcasm heavy in her archaic formality, "thou shalt surely see now why ye cannot leave yet.  Thou art far too weak still."

"Ah, give the squirrel a break, Sable," an otter on another bed called. "T'aint goin' ter kill 'er t'start travelin' agin."

Sablepaw shot the heavily bandaged otter a frosty glare. "T'will not, ye say, Swiftrudd?" she snapped. "Wilt thou stake this squirrel's life on it?  And if she encounters vermin as she wanders, as she surely shalt?  What then?  Wilt she not be defeated in her weakened condition?"

"That's fightin', matey, not travelin'," the otter objected.

"And shall she be any less dead, any farther from the gates of Dark Forest?  Nay, Swiftrudd," the healer said coldly, answering her own question, "nay, she shall not.  I firmly advise her not to travel unhealed!"

Riala groaned inwardly. "Enough, Sablepaw!  I'll stay, don't worry!" The mouse _was _right- she couldn't travel until she was better.  But as the squirrel warrioress laid back down on her bed, she bit her bottom lip in frustration.  Every day in bed was another day that the Longclaws traveled, another day farther away from her.  Another day for the trail to get cold…


	3. Salamandastron

Chapter 3: Salamandastron

            It was a full month after that day in the infirmary of the North Caves that Riala resumed following Nightdeath Longclaws' trail.  Sablepaw had finally deemed her fit to travel, after Riala demonstrated just how well she was healed by leaping over the healer's head and scampering up a wall.  Now she started out of the Caves, carrying a satchel of food given to her by the warriors within.

            "Riala!"

            The squirrel paused, barely ten lengths from the caves, then turned. "What is it, Mark?"

            The warrior walked up to her and handed her a parchment. "I had my trackers look for the Longclaws' trail," he told her. "They asked various goodbeasts if they'd seen the wolverine, and mapped his trail as far as Salamandastron.  You'll have to find it on your own once you get to that point."

            Riala looked at the parchment, a map of the area between the Caves and Salamandastron, with the Longclaws' trail shown as a dotted line.  She nodded gratefully to the mouse warrior. "Thank you," the squirrel said honestly. "I really appreciate this."

            Mark smiled slightly. "I understand." He gazed off into the distance, over the sea, and a shadow darkened his eyes and clouded his face. "Would you take a bit of advice from an old warrior, squirrel?"

            She glanced at him in surprise.  His voice had sounded as old as he'd said, as if he were positively ancient, aged beyond his years.  Something had changed since the battle, and Riala had only just noticed it.  Perhaps this was the first time Mark had let this… _agedness _show, or perhaps it was only now that she had noticed it. "Of course," she agreed.

            The mouse watched her in silence for a long moment, growing older and more wearied in Riala's eyes.  Weary of battle… weary of… of life? "Don't let your hatred for the wolverine consume you," he said quietly, almost whispering it. "Don't let it take over your life." He laughed suddenly, but it sounded forced. "Listen to me, sounding like a feeble pawed elderbeast.  Good luck in your hunt, Riala.  Just remember what I said."

            Riala gazed at Mark levelly as he pulled himself together, hiding the weariness once more, but she could still see a shadow of it in his eyes now that she knew where to look. _What happened to him? _she thought, but nodded. "I will, and thank you again, Mark."  She still didn't quite understand, but she realized it was important to him that she consent. "Farewell."

            "Seasons bless," Mark returned, watching with a shadow lurking in his gaze as the warrioress headed south to Salamandastron.

            Riala set a hard pace for herself, wearing off the flab gathered from a month of bedrest.  She didn't follow the Longclaws' somewhat meandering trail, instead taking as straight of a path as possible.  Hopefully she could catch up without too much trouble…

            She traveled hard for nearly a month, going due south the entire time, getting closer and closer to Salamandastron.  The squirrel avoided trouble when she could- fights would only slow her down, and she wasn't yet as fit as she could be.  Her slowed reflexes would be a strong disadvantage.

            It was in the Badlands, less than a day's travel from the fire mountain, that Riala was at last forced into a fight.  A born woodlander, the squirrel was unused to silence.  She was accustomed to hearing birds sing and leaves rustle with movement.  The first sign of danger was a silent forest.  When something frightens the birds to silence, it's sure to be unfriendly.  That was why the squirrel was wary and cautious as her footpaws crunched in the sand of the dry desert dunes.  Her pawsteps were the only sound under the morning sun, and that signified danger to the woodlander.

            Her instincts turned out to be right.  She heard footsteps that were not her own slapping on the dunes and shifting the sand.  Riala whirled, roce out and read in her throwing paw as she searched for the other walker.  Gold-brown eyes met only sand and rocks and sunlight.  Slowly she turned in a complete circle, every sense she had straining to detect another creature.

            The sun abruptly went behind a cloud, a shadow falling across her body- but the sky was cloudless.  Riala leapt to the side, out of the sudden shade, rolling when she hit the sand and rising back to her footpaws in one smooth motion as a net fell on the spot she'd just left.  She flicked her mobile golden tail free of the entangling net and threw her stick at the top of a dune.  It struck the warty toad on his wedge-shaped snout and sent him tumbling backwards off of the sand dune.

            The squirrel retrieved her roce quickly, tensed in a fighter's crouch, eyes darting back and forth for more opponents.  She groaned inwardly as a full two score toads waddled into sight, each armed with a net and a trident.  She checked her position and groaned again- like a fool, she'd put herself in the low ground, surrounded by high dunes on all sides.  Maybe if she hurried, she could get to the top of a dune…

            Riala bounded up the slippery side of the nearest sand dune on all fours, paws never touching the sliding ground for more than a moment.  Upon reaching the peak, she parried a trident thrust from the toad standing there and sliced his net in two with her dagger.  A hard downward swing with her roce cracked the ugly creature's flimsy skull and sent him tumbling.

            The rest of the toads realized that they had lost the high ground, but it didn't matter to them.  Forty toads against one squirrel were easy odds.  The warrioress knew it as well.  There was no way she could fight all of the ugly amphibians off on her own.  She could try to run… but the dunes went on for miles, she was almost out of water, and she wasn't built for running on shifting sand.  Besides, these toads were between here and Salamandastron.

            So it came down to two choices.  Fight and most likely die or be captured, or run and most likely die from dehydration and starvation.  Riala shuddered inwardly at the thought.  She'd take her chances with the toads.

            "C'mon, ya warty cowards!" she shouted at the wary dunebeasts. "Ugly hellspawn!  Bloody web-footed wart-faced whining wimps!"

            The toads croaked and gurgled indignantly, then charged her in a massive attack.  Riala smiled thinly, humorlessly, and let out three lengths of cord. "Come to die," she whispered, and gripped the cord tied to her roce with one firm paw.  The squirrel whirled in a circle as the toads reached her, the stick flying outwards with centrifugal force, smacking soundly on the sides of amphibian skulls. "Riiilaaaaaar!" she yelled, working herself into a berserker rage- into the red-misted, unfeeling, unthinking state of bloodwrath.  She came out of her spin and reversed directions, eliminating the vertigo.  The toads fell back, croaking uncertainly, not wanting to be the next to fall to the whirling stick.

            Riala yanked on the cord, and the stick flew towards her.  She caught it and bared her teeth at the watching toads. "Any more of ye wishin' tae die?" she shouted, her usually near-imperceptible northern accent becoming much more pronounced with adrenaline.

            An annoyed croak came from somewhere near the back of the toads as nobeast advanced. "Catcha bushytail, grroik!" he croaked. "Catcha_now, _cowardbeasts!  Grroik!"

            Spurred on by the words of their king, the toads advanced on the squirrel with ready tridents.  She was breathing heavily from exertion and bloodwrath, but not about to give up, although they came at her from all sides. "Riiiiilaaaaaar!" she roared, and dove into the ranks, bashing with her roce-paw and slicing with her dagger paw.  No time for feints and parries- all she could do was act, all she could do was attack with all the ferocious strength she possessed.

            A net fell on top of her- she slashed at it with her dagger and struggled free, only to be entangled by another net.  Encouraged by the faltering squirrel, the toads all tossed their nets and threw themselves on top of her to force her to stop moving. _Idiots, _the warrioress thought with a soundless snarl, slashing bellies and throats with her dagger.  She didn't have to mobility to use her roce, but a bladed weapon was certainly of use in quarters as close as this.  More toads piled on her, however, and the bodies of the dead kept her from reaching the live ones.  She was being crushed under the weight; she couldn't move- couldn't _breathe…_

And then the toads moved off of her.  She couldn't see much as her vision was obscured by blackness from the lack of air, but she drew in life-giving breaths as she was wrapped tightly in the nets.  Her dagger was prized from her paw, and she was lifted by several ugly amphibians.

            Captured.  Blood and bones, this was annoying!

            Riala's vision finally cleared in time to see the ground rushing up to meet her when the toads dropped her.  Even wrapped in nets, she could still move somewhat.  She ducked her shoulder and curled into a roll, using her own momentum to bring herself to her footpaws.  In front of her was a massive, warty toad with a comical tin crown on his head. _King Croakweb, _she guessed. 

            Her assumption turned out to be correct. "King Croakweb is I," the toadking croaked. "Bushytail is catched.  Bushytail bowking!"

            The squirrel shot "King Croakweb" a withering look of utter disgust. "Kroakweb is legless tadpole," she told him, trying to guess what would be insulting to a toad. "Nono, Croakweb not slimetoad!  Croakweb is flyhatchling!"

            The king's eyes bulged with comical fury. "Bushytail foolbeast!" he gurgled indignantly. "Bushytail _will _bow!  Croakweb _toadking, _not flybabe!"  A toad behind Riala struk her in the knees and then the head with the butt of his trident, driving her to the ground in what looked like a low genuflection.  Stars burst across her vision from the blow to her head, and she fought unconsciousness as Croakweb gurgle-laughed scornfully.

            "See bushytail?  Bushytail bow like cowardbeast!" he said. "Bushytail foolbeast, foodbeast!  Now take bushytail…"

            "Eulaliaaaaa!" It was a deafening shout, echoing over the dunes and sending the toads into a frenzy of fear.

            "Longears!" King Croakweb croaked hoarsely. "Run now!  Leave bushytail!  Guard king!  Help kiiiiing!" His last word faded into a panicked, drawn out scream as the press of panicked toads abandoned all thought for loyalty to their grossly fat monarch, thinking only of their own safety as they tried to escape, trampling Croakweb underfoot.

            Riala curled into a ball of net and squirrel as the toads raced away in a panic.  She could almost feel the bruises forming as yet another warty amphibian trod upon her in its rush to escape.  The solid _thwack _of wood hitting skulls sounded like music to the squirrel's tufted ears, and then finally the frantic croaking receded into the distance.  She uncurled with a groan and opened her eyes.

            A light sand-colored hare was standing over the squirrel with a concerned expression etched on her features.  On seeing Riala's eyes open, she waggled her ears in relief. "I say, wot're ya doin' on th' flippin' ground, treejumper?" she asked.

            The squirrel grimaced. "What does it look like?" she groused. "Mind cutting me free?"

            The hare shrugged and dipped her lance almost casually to Riala's red-brown fur.  With a few seemingly careless swipes, during which the wide-eyed squirrel scarcely dared to breathe for fear of the hare misjudging the slice, she cut the nets into shreds.  Riala climbed to her footpaws carefully, wincing as a few ribs complained with a wave of pain. "Thanks, I think," she said to the hare fem.

            "Wot about us?" another voice protested merrily.  Four sand-furred hares, each wearing tunics colored the same dusty shade as the dunes, much like the one the female hare wore, jogged easily back from where they'd been encouraging toads to run a bit faster.

            Riala grinned at the one who had spoken, a large hare with one entirely black ear.  "Thank _you _too," she told him, addressing the other three hares as well. "I'd probably be toad dinner by now if you five hadn't helped out."

            The black-eared hare looked around at the bodies of dead toads that littered the dunes. "I don't know 'bout that, treejumper," he said dryly. "Y'seem t'have been doin' rather well on y'own, doncher know."

            "Aye, _very _well," Riala agreed sarcastically. "Tangled in a net and lying on the ground before a warty toad who insists on being called king." She shrugged. "No matter.  Thanks for saving me and kindly accept my gratitude.  The name's Riala." She began winding the cord of her roce into a manageable coil as she spoke, untangling the occasional knot.

            "Top o' th' morn' t'you, Riala," the black-eared hare greeted her. "I'm Sarrock, th' sergeant of this spiffin' Long Patrol that y'claim saved y'skin.  Th' friendly gel there's Lera…"

            "An' he never gets th' entire name right," the light-furred haremaid groused, "so I think I'll keep th' chap from manglin' it all over again.  Th' name's Lilyrun Eulalia Racelong Archereye, or Lera, y'see.  Simple, wot?"

            Sarrock rolled his eyes and motioned to the previous silent hares behind him.  They were tossing a lance back and forth between them at blinding speed. "Th' small chap there, that's Recar.  He's th' champion runner in th' Long Patrol, though I don't bally well believe th' chap is done growin' yet!" Recar was indeed small, not long an adult, but his lean physique and the long muscles of a runner on his legs gave testament to Sarrock's description.  He didn't look over as his name was mentioned, but remained intent on the whirling lance. "Th' ol' graybeard's Tion," he added with a grin. "A spiffin' warrior, but don't tell th' feeblepaws I swaid that!" Tion was graying a little around his ears and whiskers, but he was muscular and fit, his eyes hard and flat, fixed on the lance.  It whizzed point first for his shoulder, and he moved in a blue, stepping aside and snatching it out of the air with one nimble paw.  He turned it over and threw it back in the same smooth motion.  No, Tion was definitely _not _feeling his years.

            Riala watched, alarmed and tense as the deadly lance flew back and forth.  Sarrock ignored the potential peril faced by his patrol members and continued introducing them instead. "Th' clown an' th' last bally chap of th' group has t'be Nuron, doncher know!  Nobeast else left t'be him, y'see.  Don't see why anybeast else would want t'be 'im, though!"

            Nuron was indeed a jester.  He stared at the lance with a dumbfounded expression as it flew back and forth between Tion and Recar.  Abruptly Tion threw the weapon at Nuron, whose ears shot up in surprise as he fell back onto the sand.  His hind legs shot up and grabbed the lance in mid-air, and he kicked out.  Straight as an arrow, the weapon whistled in Recar's direction, striking him directly in the chest.  The squirrel yelped in shock as the young hare fell onto his back with a whoosh of expelled air, and then rolled over onto all fours, coughing.  The lance, entirely bloodless, lay on the ground beside him.

            Nuron waggled his long ears at Riala with a laughing grin at her confused expression. "Cloth tip, y'see," he explained, bounding upright. "Silly Recar.  Never let y'r guard down, doncher know!  Tsk.  Still 'aven't learned the basics, wot?"

            The young hare scowled and pulled himself up, using the javelin as a staff, rubbing his ribs ruefully. "Th' ol' thing may 'ave a cloth tip, but it still leaves a bally bruise, y'know!"

            "An' mayhap that bruise'll make y'pay attention next time, wot?" It was the quiet Tion that spoke this time, and then his light brown gaze flickered over to RIala. "I say, wotcha doin', treejumper?"

            "Looking for my dagger," she replied, kicking a toad's carcass over to his back.  The glint of the harsh southern sun on blood-wet steel caught her eye, and she bent down over the body of a toad whose webbed hand clutched the bloodied dagger.  Riala pulled her blade out of its hand and pushed it into the earth to clean it.

            "So y'keep y'r dagger clean an' forget about y'self, m'gel?" Lera grinned at her, gesturing with a paw at the squirrel's blood-stained tunic.  Her red-brown fur and rust-gold tail had been turned almost black, and slick with the blood of toads, as well as some of the squirrel's blood. "Let's get t'the ol' fire mountain, an' y'can wash all that off.  How's that sound, ol' thing?"

            Riala nodded in relieved agreement. "Sounds bally good, ol' gel!"

            Sarrock laughed at her attempt to speak in the hare manner. "Enough jawin' then.  Let's get runnin', chaps'n'chapesses."

            Riala had heard that Salamandastron was huge, but she was struck by the sheer enormity of the extinct volcano. It towered above the sea like a stalwart sentinel, never sleeping, unmovable and unconquerable. The setting sun turned its rocky face a rich gold riddled with shadows. For a long moment, the squirrel could do little but stare up at the towering mountainous fortress, craning her neck to see the top.

A calloused paw pushed her head down to a more comfortable position. "Goin' t'get y'head stuck like that, treejumper," Lera told her with a laugh. "Y'll see th' top soon enough, an' from a better spot too, wot!"

"'Allo th' bally mountain thingummy!" Nuron shouted irreverently. "Care t'let a tired patrol inside?"  
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and a huge dark form stood in the shadows of the entryway for a brief moment. Then he stepped forward into the light, a tall badger dressed in a heavy smith's apron stained with the black soot of the forge fires. His eyes were the red-brown of a mustelid, and he leaned casually on a massive hammer. "Nuron, you're as respectful as ever, I see," he said with a rumbling bass laugh.

"Aye, y'old stripemutt," the hare returned, an irrepressible grin creasing his sandy face. "Wot's f'r dinner?"

"Th' cook hinted at th' possibility of hare-tongue stew," the lord of Salamandastron replied casually. "Sounds good t'me."

Nuron's ears stood straight up, quivering with indignation. "Bad form, ol' thing, hintin' at usin' a chap's taster f'r dinner! I wouldn't be able t'taste th' bally stew, y'know! Jolly bad form, Fire-me-sight!"

The badger chuckled, looking past Nuron to the squirrel behind him. "Ah, a guest! I hope you'll excuse my poor manners and those of th' walking stomach here. I'm Firesight, Badger Lord of Salamandastron."

"We found Riala 'ere tryin' t'knock out Croakwotsit's entire frog army with a flippin' stick an' dagger," Sarrock explained before the squirrel could return the introduction.

"An' I'm thinkin' she's wantin' a good bath afore she eats'n'chats, y'see," Lera added, grinning at Riala apologetically.

"Aye," she agreed, mock aggravation coloring her tone. "The longears promised a bath, but I didn't think they meant a dust bath!"

Firesight laughed at the exchange and shouldered his massive hammer as if it weighed nothing. "Welcome, then, to the mountain of the fire lizards. Lera'll show you to th' baths. I've got t'get back to the forge, myself. I'll see you at dinner." With a silent grace that seemed contradictory to his striped bulk, the badger melted into the caverns of Salamandastron, leaving the door cracked open for the small group.

"Y'heard th' stripedog, Lilyrun Eulalia Racelong Archereye," Recar said, not stumbling once over the convoluted excuse for a name. "Get movin', wot?"

"Move y'self, y'overgrown roadrunner," Lera shot back good-naturedly. She winked at Riala. "If yore finished with y'spiffin' dust bath, m'gel, I'll show y'where t'wash th' dust out of yore fur!"

It was nearly an hour before Riala finally decided she passed as reasonably clean. She'd not had a good bath in at least a week's time, having either been in too much of a hurry for one or not near enough water. It had taken several tubfuls of forge-heated water to eliminate the mess of blood, sand, and sweat caked on her red-brown fur in a dark crust.

She stepped out of the tub, water dripping to the stone floor and running down the almost imperceptible slope to the drain at the far end of the room. The clear liquid poured down in a waterfall as the squirrel wrung out her rust-gold tail with both scarred paws, and then shook herself like a dog might, sending droplets flying every which way. A towel hung by the door next to the short, thick, dark brown stick she called her roce and her plain but serviceable dagger. As she briskly toweled herself dry, two tunics that lay on the floor next to the doorway caught her gold-brown gaze. One was a dune-brown Salamandastron tunic., and she pulled it on before picking up her usual tattered, worn, forest-hued garb. She looked at the mottled cloth in disgust. "I'm going to have to get a new one made," Riala muttered.

A paw rapped on the bath-chamber door. "I say, ol' thing, didja drown in there?"

The squirrel recognized the voice as Lera's. "Aye, I jolly well did," she said, mimicking the hare accent. "Wot else would I be doin' in 'ere?"

"Yore accent's flippin' 'orrible," Lera informed her as Riala opened the door, coiling her roce cord over one arm. The hare immediately did a double-take, staring at the squirrel's rust-gold tail. "Golden tail?" she exclaimed.

"That is my name…" Riala said, giving Lera an odd look. By the expression on the hare's face, one would have thought she'd just spotted the gates of Dark Forest.

"No, treejumper! Yore tail! Y'didn't tell us yore name was Riala Goldentail!" Her tone was almost accusatory.

The squirrel was getting more and more confused. "Is it important?"  
Lera's mouth opened wide for an outburst, then closed with a sigh. "Aye, bally well important. Ah, well, jes' goes t'show y'can't thwart fate anymore'n y'can stop th' seasons. Let's go t'get some tucker. How's that sound, chappess?"

"Spiffin'!" Riala said, forcing a grin and pushing aside her discomfort over Lera's odd reaction to the sight of her rust-gold tail.

The Salamandastron fare was excellent, Riala decided as she sat down beside Lera at a long table laden with food. "It looks delicious!" she exclaimed.

"It is," Lera agreed, loading her plate with fresh green salad. The squirrel followed suit, dumping shredded cheese liberally on her own. Hare and squirrel dug in simultaneously with the other hares in the mountain hall.

All sound abruptly ceased as the door in the back of the cavern creaked open. The powerfully built badger walked into the room from the forge and looked disapprovingly at the filled plates and sheepish-faced hares. "Starting without me?" he rumbled, wiping his forge-stained paws on his thick leather blacksmith's tunic.

"Well, we were hungry! M'poor tum was growlin' loud as you in bloodwrath!" Nuron called. "And y'were busy with yore fire'n'rocks!"

"Metal, longears," Firesight said calmly, walking over to the chair at the head of the long table. "Not rocks."

"An' metal is rock, s'cuse th' correction, Lord Firesight," a hare Riala hadn't yet met pointed out.

The badger glared at the grinning creature, then turned back to the rest of the Salamandastron hares. "You can all go back to eating now, not that I need to tell you," he told them, sinking down into the huge, ornately carved chair. As he reached for a platter of fresh-baked bread, his red-brown gaze fell on Riala. Shock sparked in his eyes for a brief moment, and he stood quickly, wasting no time. "Sarrock, Duneswift, Starsong! I'm holding a council of war, now! Everybeast else, begin preparations for defense against an attacking horde. You, squirrel!"

Stunned and confused by the sudden announcement of war, the red-brown squirrel could do little but stare at Firesight for several long moments before finally realizing that he was speaking to her. "Sir?" she asked uncertainly as the hall fell silent, every eye focused on the badger lord.

"If you're in any sort of a hurry, you'd better leave now," he told her, deep voice grim. "There'll be a battle soon, and I've no idea how long it'll take."

Riala gaped at the badger, astonished. "How can you know that?"

"Your tail's gold," he replied, as if that explained everything. "If you must stay, Recar'll show you what t'do. It's your choice." With that, Firesight looked out over the silent hall of hares impatiently, one massive paw tapping the dark wood of the table. "Well?" he demanded. "We've not much time until Zarok an' his horde reach th' mountain. Move!"

He turned and left the room at a trot as the hares exploded into a flurry of motion. A paw grabbed her arm on passing, and the squirrel's gaze focused on Recar's face. The young Runner tugged her arm insistently, urgently. "We've got t'take up positions in th' ol' fire mountain. D'ya know how t'shoot an arrow or sling or th' like?"

"I can use a bow well enough," she replied.

"Bally good," the hare said. "C'mon, treebusher, let's find ya a bow."

Riala grimaced, standing and stretching her cramping legs. One footpaw was numb and began to tingle with the renewed blood flow. She gazed out the narrow arrow slit at the campfires below, a hundred tiny stars embedded in the beach. "What are they waiting for?" she muttered irritably. "Why are they just sitting there?"

Tion was an old veteran at pitched battle, and understood the tactics of war far better than the squirrel, whose main experience had been as a lone fighter.  He leaned against the wall next to the arrow slit, working steadily on fletching arrow shafts. "Could be several things," he replied in his quiet voice. "Might be they're tryin' t'scare us, impress us with numbers. Won't work, y'know. Small group compared t'most we've fought." He held an arrow up to the torchlight, examining his fletching job, and then tied off the string and reached for another wooden shaft and more feathers. "'Nother reason might be th' vermin're simply takin' a rest afore battle, seein' as they've been marchin' f'r so long. Likely, though, s'not th' case, doncherknow." His light brown eyes narrowed, paws stilling on the arrow as he gazed at the distant fires. "Most like, they aren't there at all. Jes' th' fires, makin' us think they're there. Seein' how t' leader, Zarok, is a fox, I'd say they're comin' up th' mountain right 'bout now."

The squirrel gaped at the calm manner in which he told her this last, unhurriedly tying off the fletching of his arrow. "Then why are we just sitting here?" she asked incredulously.

The grizzled warrior inspected his fletching critically, setting it aside before answering. "Because Firesight's planned f'r this. He's got hares hidden down there, waitin' t'scout out th' camp. Th' moment th' vermin leave, we'll know. You'll hear a loud whistle relayed from th' scouts to here."

"Huh." Riala watched the vermin camp thoughtfully, fingering the seasoned wood of her roce. "So what are we going to do? Wait?"

Tion nodded minutely, beginning work on yet another arrow. "Best advantage is t'ambush th' ambushers. They'll try t'attack uss, but we'll be waitin' with hot oil, boulders, arrows, slingstones, javelins, an' th' like. Many of 'em'll die without a single loss of one of ours. Then we attack head-on later, 'cos we've not enough food t'last out a siege. Battle'll end at sunrise, 'cept f'r cleanup work." The last sentence was added almost reluctantly, a brief sadness flickering across the veteran's scarred features, gone so quickly that Riala wondered if she'd imagined it. Then there was no time left to ponder it, for a piercing whistle split the air, assaulting her sensitive ears, and Tion set an arrow to his bow. The squirrel followed suit a moment later, not yet drawing it, gold-brown eyes probing the shadows for any sign of vermin.

The hare cursed softly, muttering something about being a fool, and turned from Riala's view. She blinked rapidly as the torch behind her hissed and flickered out, blanketing both warriors in darkness. Clothing rustled softly as Tion returned to his position at the arrow slit. She realized his reason for extinguishing the torch as her eyes gradually became accustomed to the blackness, able to see outside more clearly than before.  
Shadowed forms could be glimpsed down the rocks, creeping up the mountain like a steadily rising flood of darkness. Riala's bow creaked as she pulled back the arrow, taking careful aim. Tion's paw lashed out, grasping the taut bowstring, and he shook his head. "Wait," he mouthed silently, barely visible in the dim light of the moon. The ground rumbled beneath their footpaws as the vermin crept ever closer, and huge boulders careened past the arrow slit in a blue or movement.  Vermin screams of panic were cut short, yet those not fortunate enough to die still screamed…

Shouts spurred the living relentlessly onward, and finally Tion drew his bow. The arrow whistled past and down to the remaining vermin, and Riala pulled back an arrow of her own. The string hummed as an arrow flew from its grasp, whistling a death song. Not waiting to see if her aim had been true, the squirrel reached for another arrow and set it to her bow.

Time stretched on and the vermin kept coming. Riala felt the quiver for another arrow and found it empty. She cursed under her breath. "No arrows left!"  
The hare pressed another quiver into her paw. "Y'get remark'bly focused when y'shoot," he said. "Runner came by an' dropped more off. Didn'tcha notice?"  
She shrugged, rust-gold tail twitching as she took an arrow from the proffered quiver and loosed it into the steadily shrinking horde.

More shouts from below, sharp and commanding. The vermin stopped, turned, and began to recede like the tide pulled back by an insistent moon. Riala relaxed her bow in relief, setting down the weapon and unclasping cramped paws. She worked them open and closed, grimacing at newly formed blisters where she'd pulled the string back repeatedly. "I'm not used to using a bow so much," she said, pressing her chafed paws to the cool stone.

"Y'may need t'use it more soon," Tion said grimly, watching the vermin retreat. "Zarok's slyer'n I thought. Made fewer fires than he had soldiers. Fooled us t'thinkin' there were less of 'em than there were, y'see. We hurt 'em, but not too much… only enough t'make it so's we might win in a pitched battle. Which is goin' ter be necessary, seein' as we can't last out a siege."

Pawsteps sounded in the stone halls behind the two, and a young hare dashed up with a torch in one paw. "S'cuse me, but Lord Firesight wants everybeast in th' bally ol' mess hall, doncherknow." She nodded again, a nervous gesture that the dust-brown hare fem probably wasn't even aware of making. She hurried down the hall to the next arrow slit, and squirrel and hare turned wordlessly, starting down the winding tunnel at a quick jog.

The massive dining hall was eerily silent despite the gathering of so many hares.  The air crackled with an unspoken tension, dampened somewhat by the grim solemnity in the light-brown gaze of each dun colored hare.  Firesight's broad-striped face held resignation, but his light brown eyes showed fierce anticipation and the reddish glint of bloodlust.

"I'm going to challenge Zarok the Black to a duel." The badger's voice was quiet, but his bass rumble reached everybeast's ears without difficulty. "I've no illusions about vermin being honorable; I know that even if I kill the fox, his horde will still attack.  But we match them in numbers, if not even outnumber them, and without their leader they'll be less cohesive a fighting force.  I want the patrols to take up positions among the boulders near the mountain's base, and under the sand.  Watch for treachery.  Attack at the first sign of trouble.  We _cannot _afford a siege."

A darker colored hare than most raised a hefty paw. "Wot about th' chaps an' chapesses not on patrols?"

"Their job is to lay down a heavy covering fire when the vermin attack, then stop once the enemy reaches the hidden patrols.  If the patrols are taking heavy casualties, then the reserves will attack," Firesight said, his voice grim. "Do all of you know what to do?" A chorus of "ayes" was his answer, and the badger lord nodded grimly. "Right.  Take up your positions quickly and quietly, as you have been trained." He turned to leave, rumbling a last command. "Dismissed!"

The pale light of the false dawn was turning the sky a dark gray when Riala returned to her post.  Below the arrow slit she was stationed at, she could barely make out several hares, their dun fur almost invisible against the sand as they stole away silently from the mountain and buried themselves beneath a layer of pale earth.  Nothing stirred in the vermin camp, nor from the mountain once the patrols had hidden themselves.  The only sound in the still air was that of waves gently lapping the wet sand, thickening the air with the tang of salt.

The deceptive peace of the dawn was shattered with a thunderous roar that echoed across the beach, sending chills up the spine of anybeast within earshot. _"EULALIAAAAAAAAAA!" _The warcry of the fire mountain bellowed from a single cavernous chest was both challenge and proclamation of fierce defiance.  Out of the darkness of the mountain's interior strode a powerful figure, polished armor gleaming in the first rays of the sun, eyes glinting the red of flame – the red of blood.  In the silence that followed the battle cry, the _shing _of a greatsword leaving its sheath was chillingly audible.  Firesight stood between the vermin camp and Salamandastron like a figure out of legend, undefeatable, impassable, power wrapped into each taut muscle and sinew.

 "_Zarok!"_ Hatred was packed into each thunderous syllable of the harsh name, and the badger lifted his blade as if to cleave the very skies asunder. "_I am Firesight, Badger Lord of Salamandastron, friend to Starsong, the hare you so bravely killed!"_ Sarcasm hung heavy on those last three words, and his gauntleted fist shook with rage. "_If you be not a coward, fox…"_ and the sword slashed down to the ground, gleaming red in the blood-touched light of the sunrise, _"…then fight me!  To the death, to settle this NOW!"_

The echoes of the badger lord's challenge died into silence, the vermin camp remaining motionless.  Then a living shadow stepped through the lines of tents into the growing light to reveal a night-black fox, flat golden eyes expressionless as his footpaws crunched on the sand.

"Zarok," Firesight said with grim satisfaction.

The fox answered not a word, gaze never wavering from the massive badger.  He wore mail, fine linked chain almost as heavy as the badger's plate armor, yet the black fox moved as if it weighed nothing.  He was tall for his species, almost at a height with Firesight, though with a build more wiry than thickly muscled.  He held a glaive, the curved blade at the end of the long staff gleaming wickedly, and his paws gripped it with the light ease of expert use.

"You named me a coward, badger," the black fox said quietly, voice devoid of inflection. "Yet even such a _vermin _as I am not without honor." He smiled thinly, humorlessly. "If I die, my army will leave in peace.  If you die, we will take over your mountain and execute everybeast within.  Warriors make poor slaves." The humorless smile gained a wry twist. "But what will you care?  You'll be dead." Flat amber eyes watched with droll amusement as Firesight's paw clenched on the hilt of his greatsword, and then the smile vanished. "If we both die… then my army will attack yours, and to the victor go the spoils.  Are these acceptable terms, badger?"

Firesight nodded firmly, eyes flashing his anger. "Agreed."

Zarok bowed once over his glaive. "Then… let us fight!"

With seemingly impossible speed, the bladed staff lashed up and out at the badger's unprotected footpaws, but Firesight was not easily taken by surprise.  A flick of one massive paw sent the greatsword down to block the slash, and then up again as the fox sought for Firesight's arm.  The long polearm was skillfully deflected at every slash and thrust, and then it was the badger's turn to attack.  His muscles bulged as he feinted and thrust, slashed and cut, seeking an opening in Zarok's defense.  The greatsword lanced towards the fox's midriff, but he stepped aside and turned the blade with the pole of his glaive.  Firesight attempted a thrust to his opponent's chest, but wood again met the flat of the blade. Neither could seem to touch the other as they danced death across the shifting sands.

From her vantage point within the mountain, Riala shook her head in amazement, even as she tensed with concern for the powerful badger. "I've seen bladework like this only once before," she murmured to nobeast in particular, gold-brown eyes fixed on the deadly match below.

"Aye, an' few times will y'see it again, chapess," a rough voice said from the shadows.

The squirrel jumped at the unexpected noise and whirled, dagger instantly at paw.  A low chuckle met her straining ears, and a graying hare stepped out of the darkness.  He had been dark brown once, if the sable interspersed with the gray was any indication, but now he was a grizzled elder who still moved with a warrior's fluid grace.

"Y'can put that up, m'gel," the hare said with a grin, nodding to her dagger.  She looked at the blade curiously, unable to recall drawing it, and returned it to its sheath slowly.

"Sorry about that, Elder," Riala apologized. "I suppose its reflexes…" She turned to the arrow slit, gazing down at the battle below.

"Th' name's Loamleg, treebusher, not Elder," the hare said frostily, peering over her shoulder at the duel. "An' that _is _quite a battle, wot?"

"Aye," Riala agreed, watching. "But nobeast's even drawn blood yet…"

"An' evenly matched as those two are, t'will take a while.  Y'see, if'n Firesight c'n break th' fox's lame s'cuse f'r a spear, he'd win.  But that Zarok chap is careful t'only meet th' flat of th' blade, an' he's fast enough that Firesight can't press him hard as he needs ter.  An' with 'em both armored, t'will be a time 'till it's over… unless one can get through a gap in th' mail'r plaates.  'Course, if Firesight uses his sword as a club, he c'n break some bones in th' fox, doncherknow.  But th' fox is too skilled f'r that."

Riala was fascinated.  She'd known much of what Loamleg had said on a subconscious level, but she'd never thought much about the strategy of dueling.  She had always just fought unthinkingly, letting bloodwrath control her motions. "Then how will it end, if they're so evenly matched?"

The grizzled veteran shook his head slowly. "They'll tire an' start makin' mistakes eventually.  Maybe it'll end with one blow; maybe they'll chip away at each other 'till one … loses.  Hard t'tell yet, y'see." His pale brown eyes narrowed abruptly. "Aha!  They're tirin' now, both of 'em.  It'll be over soon…"

An angered roar split the air as Zarok's glaive drew first blood through a chink in the armor at the badger's shoulder.  Only a shallow cut, it was still enough to provoke Firesight's rage.  Without warning, his greatsword crashed down on the fox, who almost didn't get his glaive up in time.  The huge blade glanced off of the long polearm and screeched down the finely meshed chainmail, drawing a hiss of pain from the fox.  Zarok slashed inward, turning his glaive at the last minute to catch on the badger's ear and helmet, ripping off the steel head covering and flicking it to the ground.  Blood trickled into Firesight's eyes, and he lashed out blindly, roaring his defiance.  The fox ducked nimbly under the sweeping blade and made a single deft cut at the badger lord's throat.

Firesight's battle cry died as a throaty gurgle, and he dropped his greatsword as it became too heavy to lift.  Then his red-misted eyes, already fogging in death, fixed on his lifelong enemy, and he found strength from an upwelling of hatred.  Forcing a last battlecry from his ravaged throat, he stumbled inside the long polearm's reach and grasped Zarok the Black in a spine-crushing embrace of death as he screamed his final challenge to all who would hear:

"_EULALIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"_ __

Riala leaned against the chilled stone, stunned, gold-brown eyes wide with what she'd seen. "He's dead…"

Loamleg closed his eyes, paws curled into tight fists at his sides. "Aye…" he whispered, rough voice thick with grief and tears. "An' he knew he'd be dyin', too.  _'The day a squirrel with golden tail into the mountain comes, the fox shall find the end of the badger's trail.  They both shall die 'neath the rising sun.'"_

The squirrel glanced sharply at him. "What's that from?"

"Th' prophecy on th' bally wall in th' chamber of th' badger lords," the hare said, gazing at the two bodies below.

"A squirrel with a golden tail…" Riala shook her head slowly as the reaction of the hares and badger to her appearance suddenly became clear. "That's me, isn't it?"

Loamleg drew in a slow breath, and his minute nod was all the answer she needed.  She stared out the arrow slit blankly, feeling somehow responsible for Firesight's death.  At her nearly inaudible sigh, the hare placed a reassuring paw on her shoulder. "There now, m'gel, t'wasn't y'r fault.  Y'can't outsmart fate.  Y'were just th' warnin'."

The sun was nearly full above the horizon, and the red of sunrise was beginning to fade to daylight blue.  A warm breeze had picked up, carrying the permeating ocean scent and taste of salt to the waiting defenders. "Going to storm," Riala said quietly, not replying to the hare's words.  She lowered her gaze to the vermin camp, which was finally showing signs of motion in the opening of tent flaps and the occasional wisp of campfire smoke.  She strung her bow with growing ease, stretching muscles stiff from the previous night's battle. "S'pose we'd best get ready to fight…"

The ranks of vermin lined up in formation, every eye fixed on the two bodies in the sands.  They stood there for several long moments, the breeze picking up to a stronger and colder wind, before a tall ferret in a captain's uniform strode out to the broken body of her leader.  She kneeled beside him, examining the body silently, but looked up at the hiss of sand as a black-eared hare materialized from the earth, javelin in paw. 

The ferret smiled thinly at the sight. "We've lost enough of our own t'yer hares," she said simply, before the Salamandastron sergeant could throw his weapon. "Th' fox paid us well enough, but he's dead.  We'll be leavin' this place." She nodded respectfully to the bodies of the two opponents and turned to go. "They was warriors through an' through, an' we won't see their like again.  We've both paid enough t'hate." With those last quiet words, the ferret turned and walked away from Salamandastron, and the vermin army followed.

Riala gaped at the sight. "These… are vermin?  They don't act like the ones I've fought…"

Loamleg was just as surprise, light brown eyes wide. "I've never seen th' like!  Honorable vermin… bally shocker, wot?"

The sunset's amber fires stretched across the sky, painting the fleeing gray clouds a rich gold.  In the sand below, a squirrel's rust-gold tail paled in comparison with the flaming heavens, one scarred paw lifted to the sun-touched mountain behind her in a silent salute.  A long moment passed with the waves lapping gently at the sandy shores of Salamandastron, and the squirrel turned south as the hares' thunderous farewell echoed in her ears, the ghost of a mighty warrior lending his roar to their warcry:

"_EULALIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!"_


	4. Mossflower

Vengeance Quest 

Chapter 4: Mossflower 

_Darkness, and cold… the perpetual frigid night of the Northlands in winter._

Father…

_A young squirrelmaid's questioning call as the pale moon hides its face behind a cloud, blanketing the drey in darkness._

It's cold… dark…

_Faint fear in a child's voice._

I'll light the fire, Ria.

_Reassuring, comforting, a strong and beloved voice, and then flames flare up, driving back the shadows… but what meets the child's eyes is not her father's smiling gaze, loving and familiar, but a death's-head snarl, an empty skull burning in a deadly pyre._

Father!

_Embers flare and then fade to blackness, fur of night around red eyes, white fangs exposed in a sneer at the squirrelmaid's grief and fear, a cold triumphant smile baring white fangs…_

Game over, Battlecry.

_A smug and hated voice, the whistle of arrows…_

No! Fatheeeeeeeer!

Gold-brown eyes snapped open to daylight, the agonized cry of loss dying on frost-chafed lips. The only sound was the faint song of early winter's sole remaining birds, feathers fluffed against the bitter cold and the early snows. The only sight was that of naked trees, leaves stripped by the autumn, mingled with dark pine, their ever-green boughs weighted down with snow. Softly falling flakes hissed gently on the dying embers of the previous night's campfire, a sordid reminder of her nightmare.

Riala Goldentail wrinkled her nose as a large flake landed on it, sending a chill across her face. She shook herself thoroughly, rust-gold tail puffing out with the vigorous motion, snow cascading off red-brown fur. A shiver ran through the wiry squirrel as a gust of frigid winter wind tossed powdery snow into the air.

"Should've taken that mouse's offer of a winter coat," she muttered past chattering teeth, tufted ears laying flat against her head in a vain attempt to warm them. "Never thought it could be this cold this far south…"

Another flurry of snowflakes hissed against the embers that still clung vainly to a semblance of life, and Riala kicked snow over the dying fire. Stamping scarred footpaws on the cold ground, she brushed off the dune-brown tunic from Salamandastron and picked up her dagger and roce from their places by the remains of the fire. A frown played across her face as she tucked them into her fraying belt. She still hadn't gotten a new forest-shaded tunic, not that it would do much good for camouflage in the wintertime, and she had no other clothing besides her sleeveless tunic. If she got into a fight, she'd have some trouble winning… Her rust-gold tail flicked from side to side in another attempt to keep warm as she began to walk further down the north path, footpaws dragging slightly in the snow.

"No food in the woods… foolish counting on that, it's winter after all…" The squirrel's rough voice matched the wind in its hoarseness, grating on the winter air falteringly, her stomach riding with an answering rumble. "Snow covering the Longclaws' trail…" The rasp thickened to a growl as she spoke the name, a spark of renewed life flaring red in gold-brown eyes, then fading in disgust. "And now I'm talking to myself."

"'Ey, go on an' keep talking, bushyfool," a nasal voice said, a sneer obvious in the tone. Riala whirled to see a scrawny rat fem, a curved saber at her side and a thin and much-patched cloak over her grimy fur. She smirked at the squirrel's skeptical appraisal, taking it for apprehension. "Th' name's Bluddfang, an' I'm th' greatest swordsrat this side o' th' Broadstream."

"An' I'm Muddclaw, 'er mate an' th' best beast wi' a whip an' chain in Mossflower!" A nondescript rat with mud-brown fur and a mess of scars about his face stepped out of the scant brush with a toothy grin, a length of chain rattling from one paw and a whip cracking and whirling like a live thing from the other.

The squirrel watched both filthy rats warily, noting with a sinking feeling that both seemed well fed and well-rested despite their seedy appearances, and that they moved with a graceful ease that supported their boasts. She could probably match either one of them, and perhaps even defeat both without too much pain on her part… _if _she were as rested and well fed as they. As it was, though…

She shook her head minutely, pushing aside the doubts. There were only three options open to her: bluff her way out, flee, or fight. Riala smiled wryly at the thought. She'd never been able to bluff convincingly, and she hadn't run from a battle in her life. It was really no choice at all… "What do you want?" she asked, one paw straying to her roce as she slowly backed away to place her back against a massive oak.

"Wot d'you think? Yore vittles an' yore weapons o'course!" the female said.

"And what makes you think I have food, wormtail?" She smirked slightly, insolently, her other paw creeping for her dagger, only her lashing tail betraying her tension.

"Uh…" This question seemed to confuse the male, and his red-brown eyes swung to his mate.

"Don't matter," she replied with a sneer. "Ya've got weapons. Hand 'em over or else we eats squirrel f'r dinner!"

Riala's mouth creased into a thin line, a parody of a smile. "Afraid I can't do that, mangyfur."

The rat fem snarled, drawing her sword in a single fluid movement and leaping at the squirrel. "Then die, fool!"

Riala had been expecting the attack, twisting away at the last moment and drawing her dagger, slicing across the rat's leg. Chain clinked behind her and she whirled, jerking her roce free from her belt in time to catch the chain around the stick and the whip across her face. It just missed her eye, slashing fire over her muzzle and drawing a hiss of pain from her throat. The male weasel grinned, freeing his chain from her weapon with a yank and lashing out, and above the whirling iron his eyes flicked beyond her head to something behind her. She didn't think, didn't have time to think – she just reacted and turned and _leapt, _racing partway up the oak's trunk. The male's chain thudded into the thick wood, followed by the thunk of a steel blade.

The squirrel hung onto the trunk with three paws, her dagger held in the fourth, her roce dangling by its cord. Her starving muscles quivered with exertion, a miserable sensation she'd rarely felt, and her frosted lungs burned with the constant contact of the cold winter air. She stared down at the two rats below her, their weapons ready as they grinned up at the warrioress.

_I could run… they can't catch me in the trees…_

The thought was a traitorous thread of weakness in her cold-dulled mind, and she dismissed it immediately. _Have to take one out quickly, before they can team up on me again. _Without warning, she leapt from the tree onto the rat fem, dagger glinting in the fading sunlight… but the rat's boasts hadn't been idle. The swordsrat reacted with barely a second of hesitation, her blade flashing upwards as Riala's dagger sliced down.

Pain slashed through her, engulfing her senses in fire spreading outward from her chest, barely hearing the agonized scream of a soul being torn asunder. _"Bluddfaaaaaang!" _The name ended in a strangled sob, and the male rat shoved the squirrel carelessly off of his fallen mate, sending waves of flame through her bleeding body. Darkness crept about her vision, but she fought unconsciousness, knowing it meant her death. The pain-ravaged face of the rat spoke her fate clearly, and he turned that face her way, tear-wet eyes smoldering with grieving fury. "Y'killed me Bluddfang!" he sobbed, paws closing about his two weapons. The rattle of chain and the hiss of the whip wove a song of death in Riala's ears.

_Father… I'm sorry._

She could do nothing but curl into a fast-weakening ball, rust-gold tail wrapped over her bleeding muzzle in a vain attempt at protection from the biting whip and bone-shattering chain.

_I failed…_

The chain crashed down, and the snapping of bone hurtled her into darkness.

_Darkness... emptiness..._

Spinning, circling in a void, nothingness stretching on forever, seeing nothing, feeling nothing.

_Is this death?_

A dim light ahead, like the palest glimmer of sunlight through the thick canopy of a dense forest...

_Dark Forest._

Heavy gates, dark and deadly, holding back the souls of all time, closed on life... now swinging open on silent hinges to welcome the weary soul.

_Death... peace?_

Obsidian, shadowed, cold, inviting. Opened gates giving a glimpse of a forest, ancient and silent, unchanging.

_So easy to just accept it..._

A tired spirit, hardened and aged by battle and hate, driven forward by sheer will and a fierce desire for vengeance. To this worn-out soul, the temptation to accept the final rest offered by the gates of Dark Forest was an almost physical pull, nigh on irresistable.

_Too easy._

Balking, not trusting the ease of death, long experience speaking against taking the easiest road. Ease led to false security, which led to death...

_But I'm already dying. Why not give in?_

Teetering on the edge of a blade, blindfolded, unable to see on which side lay disaster, where to step next, guided by the inexhorable pull of the open gates of death. Almost giving in, and then...

_I can't die yet._

Remembering a face that haunted every night, hate flaring up at the memory of flat dark eyes and a taunting voice, a bloodied scimitar in a long-clawed paw. Remembering the thud of so many arrows, a child's scream, a wolverine's command. Remembering an oath made before a funeral pyre.

_I have not yet taken revenge._

Seeing a long-lost, much-loved face, waiting between twin gates, and almost succumbing despite having made a decision. Saluting, respect and farewell and promise in the military gesture, turning away as it is returned.

_I cannot die yet!_

Hate and regret clashing, giving way to unreasoning fury and a fierce desire to live, if only to complete a self-assigned task, born of the vengeance-lust that dictated the soul's path. Shee force of an adominable will surging against the allure of death, away from the obsidian gates, falling into the black nothingness of dreamless sleep.

She opened her eyes to firelight and pain. For a single panicky moment she thought the forest had caught aflame, that she was burning alive - but the light was cast by a single source, and there were blankets covering her. She was indoors... beyond that, she knew nothing.

_Dark Forest would have made a more comfortable bed._ It was a wry thought that held not a trace of sincerity. She had amade her decision and there was no looking back on what might have been. She had to look to the now, and that meant finding out where she was and what she was to do about it.

The squirrel's gaze moved to the side, but it was all that could move. An attempt to turn her head to follow sent stars bursting across her vision, sucking air from battered lungs with a gasp of pain. She held still for several long moments, eyes closed tight, waiting for the waves of pain to retreat far enough for reasonable thought. Finally her lids cracked open again and she took in the stark surroundings.

She was in a bed, the mattress firm, the blankets heavy. The walls were red sandstone, but those could scarcely be seen for all the shelves of jars and hanging herbs. The sharp tang of medicine permeated the air, tickling Riala's nose. An infirmary then, part of a large sandstone building. Her nose twitched again, but the room was devoid of the musky scent that accompanied most vermin. A goodbeast's place? Perhaps...

Across her mind's eye, without warning, flashed the vision of a whirling chain and a cracking whip. Her scarred and bruised hide shuddered with painful memory. The weasel had the look of death in his gaze when he fell upon her; he would not have stopped until he knew she was dead. Somebeast had stopped him then, likely permanently. That same somebeast had probably brought her to this place... wherever it was.

The faint creak of a door swinging open on its hinges caused Riala's muscles to tense, one paw twitching towards her waist, but even that slight motion set fire to her nerves, immobilizing her. A soft swear escaped her chapped lips. She would have to face whatever came unarmed and helpless; she had to trust her captors or hosts or whichever they were. Trust... not something she was used to.

"So, our wintertime visitor is awake, hm?"

The speaker was a mouse, her tone crisp and her manner plain, her light brown gaze sharp and carrying a constant hint of disapproval. The squirrel watched warily as the mouse stood over her, a skeptical light in her eyes. "Hmph. Well I told that Brook you were a lost cause, more'n half dead, an' I wouldn't be able to save you without help of a miracle. You're stronger'n I thought, bushtail."

"What..." The attempt at a question scraped through Riala's parched throat and came out as a nearly inaudable squeak, like the protesting of cartwheels forced to turn on rusted axles.

The mouse raised a thin eyebrow and picked up a glass of water, holding it carefully to her patient's lips as Riala swallowed, the cool liquid washing away the cottony taste in her mouth. "Thanks," she whispered, finding it somewhat easier to speak. "What... happened?" Her ribs protested with the breath required to vocalize, but she forced the pain to the back of her mind as she waited for the mouse to answer.

She smoothed her forest-green habit and watched the squirrel closely, then nodded. "I don't rightly know what happened; Brook and Tamlin didn't waste time telling me, but they came in with blood on their clothes and that says 'battle' to my mind. You were covered in blood an' it was a pretty mess cuttin' that tunic off, I'll tell you know. Big wound in your chest, just missed the lung. Near all your ribs broken. Broken arm, broken wrist, broken legs, just about everything broken. Whipmarks everywhere. Half dead from cold an' hunger an' the blood loss should've finished the job." The healer tilted her head, fixing the squirrel with a curious gaze. "Should've died despite all the work I did on you - piecin' bones back together, bandaging wounds, forcin' water'n food'n medicine down your throat. Never expected t'see you open your eyes."

The calm, matter-of-fact listing of injuries wrapped about Riala's tired mind like a blanket, dragging her back into unconsciousness. She fought it, forcing out another question. "Will I... fight again?"

"Huh." The mouse rolled her eyes to the herb-hung ceiling in mingled exasperation and disbelief. "Half dead an' the crazy beast wants to know if she'll fight again! I tell you, warriors..." She shook her head. "If I were you, I'd just be happy to be alive, I would."

"But... I'm alive... so I can fight..." Somehow it was important, even vital for her to get out that truth. "The only reason... I didn't enter... Dark Forest..."

Surprise faded into pity in the mouse healer's gaze. Pity for her condition or for that which ruled her life... it was impossible to tell. "I'd not be the one to be askin', warrior," she said quietly. "After all, I was wrong about you livin'. If you've a strong enough will to come back from Dark Forest, mayhap you've a strong enough will t'get better again. But ... t'will be quite a time before you do."

Again the "thank you" formed on silent lips, and Riala let darkness engulf her.

It was sunlight, rather than firelight, that illuminated the room when next she awoke. A slight, wiry figure was silhouetted against the window, facing away from Riala's cot. At the slight rustle of bed sheets, the creature turned and looked her over silently before moving away from the window.

She was another mouse, but this one was a breed apart from the healer. A lean body and muscular build showed she was trained in battle, and the relaxed posture with the readiness for action of a coiled spring made it clear that this was no peaceful healer.

"Who are you?" The words came much easier this time; it didn't take nearly as much energy to speak.

"Brook, leader of the Wanderers of Mossflower." The mouse's reply was delivered in a quiet, neutral voice that carried the hint of hidden steel. "And you are?"

Gold-brown eyes studied light brown for one long moment before the reply. "Riala Goldentail."

"So… Goldentail. Squirrel, warrior's build and weapons, minimal supplies, laced with battle scars. I'd say you were an expert warrior and woodsbeast if not for your situation," Brook said evenly.

The squirrel grimaced, scars twisting the expression into something grotesque. "What was my… situation when I was found?"

"You were unconscious in the snow next to a female rat's body. A male rat, presumably the female's mate, was beating you with a whip and a heavy chain. The otter Kaylen killed the rat and brought you to the Infirmary here at Redwall."

"_Redwall!" _The outburst left her lips before she had time to stop it. "Redwall Abbey?"

"So you've heard of it." The mouse warrior's voice was dry, almost sarcastic.

"Who hasn't?" Riala said, looking at the sandstone walls with new understanding.

"How did you come here?" Brook asked, deliberately pulling her attention from the pale red bricks.

The abrupt change in subject gave the squirrel pause, and she gazed up at and past the ceiling as she spoke. "I'm from the Northlands. I came here through Salamandastron following an enemy of mine, a black wolverine named Nightdeath Longclaws." Her gaze sharpened, focusing on Brook. "Has he passed this way?"

Brook shook her head. "I've heard nothing of a wolverine. You could check Redwall's records…" Her voice trailed off and she looked uncertainly at Riala's scarred and bandaged body.

Gold-brown eyes narrowed at the silent implication. "I _will _fight again."

The mouse shrugged. "Perhaps you're right, but… What were you doing in winter Mossflower without supplies and wearing only a tunic?"

"I told you I'm from the Northlands," she said wryly. "It doesn't snow nearly this much there… it's too cold and there's not enough moisture. After Salamandastron, I never expected it could get this cold this far south, this fast. And I expected to be able to find food…"

"I see." Brook's voice was carefully neutral. "And the rats?"

"Thieves." A scowl flickered across her face. "If I hadn't been half starved, I could have killed them both. As it was, I was only able to kill the female, and she stabbed me as I did so. The male—her mate—pushed me off of her and tore her sword from my chest and…" She shuddered involuntarily at the memory of that bone-crushing chain. "Then he took revenge."

"There was a long silence from the mouse, broken at last by the rustle of cloth as she walked towards the door, stopped halfway there. "Redwall's records are stored in the gatehouse if you heal enough to walk—"

_"When."_

Brook turned, faint amusement in light brown eyes at the squirrel's adamant interruption. "Optimistic, aren't you?"

Riala's wry grin twisted her scarred features into something closer to a hideous grimace. "Not usually, but in this I have to be. If I can't fight, then I can't live." She spoke this last in the same matter-of-fact tone she might have said, "Dinner is ready," casual and completely serious.

Brook's eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the squirrel's words and then the shock on her face subsided to something close to understanding. "_When_ you are healed enough, then. I hope to see you around Mossflower, Riala Goldentail."

With a nod of respect and farewell, the warrior mouse strode out of the infirmary. Riala watched her leave with narrowed eyes, turning the conversation over in her mind. _Dibbun steps, one at a time, more each day. I will stand up tomorrow…_

_I _will _fight again._


	5. Recovery

**Vengeance Quest**

**Chapter 5: Recovery**

She stood the next day, but the act nearly ruined her legs for life. Not yet mended, the weight of the bandage-swathed squirrel on broken limbs jolted the bone apart, bound as it was, sending her to unconsciousness with the black of pain. She received a sound scolding from the healer, Sister Bria, and the admonition to take one extremely minute step at a time. Her protest that she _was _taking one step at a time made no difference.

"From nearly comatose to standing? I do _not _agree, squirrel! _Warriors! _How can anybeast deal with the fools?"

So it was that Sister Bria laid down her _own _rehabilitation plan, starting with bending every joint several times a day until Riala was sufficiently limber. Riala was shocked by how weak and stiff she'd become with only a couple weeks of bed rest, and followed the healer's regimen faithfully, spending all of her waking hours doing leg lifts and knee bends, stretches, and anything else she could think of.

Winter passed into spring before Riala managed to get out of bed, and even then her body screamed with pain and trembled with weakness. She held herself upright nonetheless, teeth gritted against the fire that consumed her body, and remained standing until she passed out.

The squirrel ignored the scolding from Sister Bria that assaulted her ears the moment she awoke. "Foolish, I tell you! Absolutely foolish thickheadedness! Pain be the body's way of tellin' you somethin's wrong, but do you listen? Never! Not t'your own body, not to Sister Bria…"

Riala shut the mouse's voice out, tufted ears pinned flat against her head as she sat up with painful slowness and eased her legs over the edge of the bed.

"An' you don't listen t'your experiences neither! Blackin' out from pain an' you want t'do it again! _Warriors!"_

Her footpaws touched cold stone, and she hissed out a long breath from between clenched death as pain shot up her legs, shaking from the exertion of simply remaining upright. "I… _will… _do this!" she snarled to the pain and her protesting body and the shadows creeping across her vision. "Ah'll _nae _be beaten by some wee pain! By a fool rat wi' a simple bit o' iron!" Her voice grew stronger with the fuel of anger that beat back threatening unconsciousness and brought out her normally faint northland accent. "Ah'll _naught!"_

Shocked into silence, Sister Bria watched with dropped jaw while her patient's gold-brown eyes misted with red as she fought a tremendous battle against her own body. One scarred footpaw inched forward, her weight shifted, and Riala brought the other paw forward. She grinned savagely at the mouse, a feral sort of triumph illuminating her face. "Dibbun steps, healer," she rasped, the parody of a grin twisting her scarred features into a macabre mask. "One… wee… step… at… a… time…" The grin never leaving her face, she let the pain consume her into darkness and crumpled to the floor.

After seeing her patient's blind determination, Bria brought two crutches to aid Riala in standing and walking about. The squirrel stood every day, teeth gritted as she went through her physical rehabilitation regimen while upright. The weeks crawled by, spring giving way to the oppressive heat of summer, and at last Riala was recovered enough to hobble about with the aid of her crutches.

"You be a right stubborn fool an' no mistake," the healer mouse told her when she clunked slowly to the stairwell. "Not ready for stairs yet. I should know, I'm the healer! But you won't listen to me, oh no, not to Sister Bria…"

Shutting out the incessant scolding was automatic now. Riala hobbled to the stairs and looked down them with narrowed eyes. How to get down without falling? She brought her crutches forward, bending to set them on the first step, and then carefully swung her legs down to join them. Grim satisfaction etched a thin smile across her face, and she started down the next step.

She was shaking with exertion by the time she reached the bottom, every muscle protesting against her taking another step. Her knees gave way and she collapsed on the last stair, her head falling into her paws.

_Two seasons, and I can't even walk down a single set of stairs without collapsing!_

"Ahoy there… somethin' wrong, matey?"

Riala glanced up to see a seal brown otter, dark eyes curious and friendly. "Nothing's wrong," the squirrel said with her usual brusqueness, but she was unable to keep the edge of despair from her voice.

"Looks like somethin' ter me," the otter said with a smile. "Most folk don't look that blue 'bout nothin'."

She grimaced, not looking up. "I'm useless," she said flatly.

White teeth flashed in a laughing grin, and the otter stuck out a callused paw. "Glad t'meetcha, Useless. Th' name's Kaylen."

Despite her dark mood, a smile brushed fleeting wings along the squirrel's scarred features before disappearing. "Riala Goldentail, actually," she said, shaking the proffered paw.

"Aye?" She chuckled. "Don't sound much like Useless t'me."

"What use is a warrior who'll never fight again?" Any hint of the earlier smile disappeared with her bitter words, tasting foul as they left her lips.

Surprise flickered across Kaylen's face, and she sat down beside the squirrel. "Redwall's founder, Martin the Warrior… he laid down his blade an' never fought again, an' he helped t'build Redwall. 'E still protects th' abbey e'en now, after his death." She nodded towards a huge tapestry at the end of the vast hall that the stairs led into.

The laugh that rasped from the squirrel's throat was a shock to the ears, scraping against the heart with its bitterness. "I'm no Martin," she spat. "A useless squirrel who can scarcely get down some _stairs _after two seasons of bed rest, maybe, but no Martin!"

The otter blinked, staring at her with new recognition. "Yore that squirrel I found! With the rats!"

"What?!"

"Two seasons ago… in the snow… with a rat beatin' ye with a chain…"

"_You _were the one who brought me to Redwall?" Riala exclaimed.

"Aye. Didn't think ye'd even be wakin' again, much less _walkin' _down the stairs!"

The squirrel scowled and shoved at one of her crutches, sending it clattering from the stair to the ground. "Aye, but it's not with the use of my own legs."

A long silence from Kaylen enticed Riala to glance sidelong at the otter's face. She was staring at the squirrel with an odd expression on her face, some strange mix of incredulity and disgust. "Most creatures would be happy just ter be alive after somethin' like that," she growled. "Mayhap I should've left th' rat ter kill ye!"

"Maybe you should have!" Riala snarled back. "I'm no use to _anybeast _like I am! If I can't fight, I'm nothing!"

Dark eyes met gold brown in an angry stare, locking gazes as if to break away would be to lose a battle. The fury faded slowly from Kaylen's eyes as she watched the scarred squirrel's face, something akin to pity in her expression that only infuriated Riala all the more. The otter shook her head. "Maybe I should have," she echoed quietly. "Maybe I should have."

With a fluid motion that Riala could scarcely remember as once being natural to her _own _body, Kaylen rose and strode calmly out of the abbey, leaving the squirrel to contemplate the heated conversation in her own unforgiving mind.

"Kaylen!"

It was nearly a week after her initial conversation with the otter. Riala had made several more trips up and down the stairs and could at last get from one floor to the other without having to sit down for several minutes to catch her breath and rest her aching limbs. She had met many of the Redwallers in her stay at the abbey, but had not seen Kaylen again–until now, walking across the orchard to the Great Hall. She turned at Riala's call, light brown gaze flicking across the grounds, then frowning at the sight of the injured squirrel. The otter turned away slightly as if not noticing Riala.

"Kaylen, wait!" the squirrel shouted, thumping across the dry summer grass, her crutches leaving round depressions in the soft earth. "I need to talk to you..."

Kaylen sighed softly and stopped walking, turning towards Riala with a slightly impatient look on her face. "What d'ye want?"

She flinched minutely at the clipped words, knowing it was her fault that the friendly otter was so cold toward her. "I… came to say I'm sorry," she said quietly, the words forced past an unwilling tongue. Apologies were not something she was used to making. "You were right. I'm ungrateful and unappreciative of what I have… you saved me and I cursed you for it."

The otter studied her scarred face, set in motionless stone, but the squirrel's gold-brown eyes were sincere. At last she nodded. "S'all right. I understand. I s'pose if I was in th' same position I'd be a bit angry at everythin' 'round me as well." The twinkle returned to her eye and she struck forth a paw in greeting, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "What d'ye say we start over, matey? Th' name's Kaylen of Holt Telera, one of th' Wanderers of Mossflower."

Riala stared at the callused paw, uncomprehending and not quite believing it, but then her own scarred paw reached out and took it as if against her will. "Riala Goldentail," she said, and the slightest hint of a smile touched her face. "Thank you for helping me."

Kaylen chuckled. "Don't mention it. Wot else is a Wanderer for?"

"I don't know… I've no idea what a Wanderer _is._"

"Y'don't…" The otter blinked in surprise before laughing. "O'course ye don't know! Yore new ter Mossflower, roight?" At Riala's nod, Kaylen grinned and shook her head. "Silly of me ter assume ye'd know 'bout th' Wanderers of Mossflower. We're a group of warriors led by Brook an' Tamlin. Our mission's t'protect Mossflower, Redwall, an' th' like. We wander th' forest – 'tis where th' name comes from, Wanderers, wander… We seek out vermin an' report anythin' odd ter headquarters."

Tufted ears pricked forward with Riala's sharpened interest. "Anything odd? Have you ever heard reports of a black wolverine leading a horde of weasels, foxes, and ferrets?"

The otter tilted her head slightly, pondering the question. "Can't say I 'ave, Riala. Y'might find somethin' useful in Redwall's records or th' Wanderers' records."

"Where would those be?"

"Well, Redwall's records're in the gatehouse, an' the Wanderers records're at headquarters… y'can't get ter those yet, not on crutches."

A scowl flickered across the squirrel's face at the reminder of her condition, but she nodded her acquiescence. "Thanks, Kaylen."

"'Ey, I said don't mention it, matey!" Kaylen grinned and lifted her paw in a wave. "See you 'round th' woods?"

"Hopefully so," Riala agreed, watching the otter walk away with the fluid movement of her species and of a warrior. "Hopefully so…"

Riala scanned the musty scroll in her paws with a gradually deepening scowl. A snarl escaped her throat and the scroll rolled shut with a resounding _crack! _"Nothing! Still nothing! Nearly the entire gatehouse of records and nothing more useful than _herbal mixtures!"_

"Oh dear oh dear oh dear…" The wizened old mouse scooped up the fallen scroll with quivering gray paws, replacing it in its holder with tender care. He glared at the squirrel from beneath bushy brows. "These records are older than I, young ruffian!" he complained as she yanked out another scroll and unrolled it roughly, eliciting an indignant squeak from the mouse. "Be careful with that!"

"If they're as old as you say, Josiah, they can take some rough handling," Riala retorted, glancing through the contents of the parchment. She let it snap back in disgust and shook it at the aged recorder. "_Bumblebees? _Why do none of these recorders and abbots and abbesses write about anything _useful?"_

"Give me that!" Josiah snatched the scroll from the squirrel's waving paw and inspected it carefully from behind his thick spectacles. Finding no damage to the aged parchment, he replaced it almost reverently. "All of these records contain useful information to different readers," he told her in his precise manner. "Records on bumblebees are useful to beekeepers. Herbal records are useful to Infirmary workers. Simply because Redwall is not a fort for battle…"

Riala snorted derisively and waved one paw outside at the thick sandstone walls. "What do you call those, then – sunshades? They've held up against more attacks than I can count. Half your records are about battles between vermin hordes and this 'peaceful' abbey." She reached for another scroll, one of the few she had not yet looked through in nearly a season of research.

A gray paw clamped down on her scarred arm, and the mouse's pale brown eyes locked with her gold-brown ones. "You will not look through any more scrolls until you learn to treat them with respect!"

"Let go."

Josiah blinked, taken aback at the sudden wintry steel in the squirrel's voice and gaze. "What?"

"_Let go of me."_

He dropped her arm as if he'd just noticed that he held an angry adder, staring blankly at her icy visage. "Is something…"

That gold-brown gaze intensified, hardened into deadly steel, and the recorder could not look away. "I have spent my entire life looking for Nightdeath Longclaws." Her normally rough voice was an angry hiss, as cold as the blood of a snake. "The quest for his blood is the sole reason I am still alive. I care little about what I have to do to kill him. Believe me, mouse… you do _not _want to hinder my search. _Do you understand?"_

Josiah's eyes widened at the implication of the squirrel's words. "Y-yes… I understand perfectly…" he stammered, backing away. "Just… please put back the records… when you finish?"

A nod was his only answer, every muscle in Riala's body tensed, her paws curled into fists. With a barely audible squeak, the elderly recorder fled the gatehouse for someplace less stressful.

The door clicked shut, and Riala crumpled to the ground, staring at her still-clenched paws. "What am I doing?" The question was spoken in a horrified whisper, her eyes blank with shock. _Threatening an infirm old mouse because he blocked my way to some musty scrolls that probably won't be much use anyway? _"And I would have hurt him…" A shudder rippled through her lean frame, unstoppable even by the squirrel's indomitable will. _All to avenge my father… all for the Longclaws' death…_

_"Game over, Battlecry."_

The hated voice echoed through her mind, the memory sending red mist across her vision. Her face settled into emotionless stone, eyes hardening to steel. One scarred paw reached out and purposefully took hold of the next scroll.

"Rilaaaaaaar!"

_Thunk!_

Gold-brown eyes narrowed in grim satisfaction at the sound of wood striking wood. One wrist flicked in a practiced motion, the sharp tug on the braided nettle cord sending the thick length of hardwood flying back into the squirrel's callused paw. The stake embedded in the ground several lengths away now lay in two halves, broken by the forceful throw.

The sound of clapping drew Riala's attention from her target practice to the sable otter behind her. "Ye've come a long way in a season," Kaylen congratulated her with a broad grin.

It was a difficult expression to resist. The squirrel's scarred face creased in a return smile. "Thanks."

The otter glanced at the once-broken legs, now straight and strong; the extra fat collected over nearly three seasons of inactivity beginning to turn back into flat, hard muscle; the once gaping wounds sealed over with scars fading to skin visible as a white spiderweb through red-brown fur. "How's the ol' body doin', matey?"

"Still a little stiff, but better than last month."

"Good – by winter maybe ye'll be able ter join th' Wanderers."

Riala shook her head. "No, I can't stay in Mossflower… I have to go after the Longclaws."

"When ye've no idea if th' scum's north, south, east're west? Don't be a foolbeast." Kaylen chuckled. "'Sides, ye know how y'are wi' Mossflower's winters!"

"I hope I've at least learned to wear a cloak in wintertime," she retorted with a rare twinkle in her eyes. "I won't be so foolish again."

"Aye, I s'pose ye won't be, matey," the otter said. "Care ter test yore fightin' skills on a pore ol' ottermaid?"

The squirrel snorted at the thought. "IF you're a poor ottermaid, I'm a rat's babe!"

Kaylen tilted her head and squinted at Riala thoughtfully. "Well, if'n ye look careful-like, an' ye shaved yore tail…"

"Shaved my _tail?" _Mock horror widened her eyes and flattened tufted ears back against her skull. "I'll give you shaved, waterdog!" She drew her dagger with the hiss of finely honed steel escaping its sheath, and the fluid motion was answered by the _shing _of Kaylen's saber leaping into her paw. Otter and squirrel circled, each bent into a fighter's crouch, ready to spring at any moment. Silence stifled the crisp autumn air, the wind itself holding its breath as the two faced off.

They came together as if on cue, charging in and whirling and clashing in a flurry of motion. Steel met wood and was deflected, a dagger sought throat and was parried with the bell-like clang of blade on blade. Back and forth they sparred, a whirlwind of steel and wood and fur, neither scoring a mark on the other.

"Ha!" Cold metal pricked Riala's throat, and a rueful smile slashed a thin line across her scarred visage. Kaylen grinned back. "Yore right, yore stiff… but not by much, matey. Don't know many who could beat ye."

"You just did."

The otter laughed. "Don't know many outside the Wanderers who could beat ye."

"Aye, well, 'tisn't good enough," the squirrel said, sheathing her dagger and gathering up the long cord attached to her roce.

Kaylen knew Riala well enough not to argue the point, changing the subject instead. "Yore actin' almost cheerful today, treebusher. Wot's the matter?"

"I have to have a reason to be cheerful?"

"Not mostbeasts, nay, but _ye _do. Yore usually all serious an' silent. First time I've ever 'eard ye laugh, today was."

The squirrel shrugged. "I'm finally getting better, seeing progress… that's probably all it is."

"Good thing, too! Any luck with findin' out about yore wolverine friend t'other day?"

"No." The old shadows crept back into the gold-brown gaze at the thought of the Longclaws and the earlier fiasco in the gatehouse. "None."

Her flat tone earned her a sharp glance from Kaylen. "Somethin' wrong?"

Riala turned away, and the otter could almost hear her emotional walls click back into place. "Nay."

"Easy mate, I won't pry if ye don't want ter talk." Kaylen sighed softly, shaking her head. "Well, I've got a mission ter do. Just some random scoutin', reports of a coupla stoats in th' woods. Need ter see if they're hostile're not."

That elicited an odd glance from the squirrel. "If they're hostile or not?" she echoed. "Why not just kill them and be done with it?"

Kaylen blinked, returning the strange look with one of her own. "'Cos they might be peaceful-like."

"That's foolishness," Riala spat, venom thick in her rough voice. "There's no such thing as a peaceful vermin."

The otter stared, taken aback by the hatred in her friend's gaze. "Hey now, matey, ye could offend somebeast talkin' like that. We've a coupla those 'vermin' in th' Wanderers."

"You actually _trust_ the scum?" Incredulity and disgust contorted the squirrel's scarred features into a dibbun's nightmare. "You actually let them join your ranks?!"

"Some o' those _scum_'re me friends, an' 'ave saved me life more'n once," Kaylen said, anger flaring in her normally jovial face. "Talk ter th' 'scum' first afore ye judge, squirrel!" She whirled about, slamming her saber into its sheath furiously, and stalked way, leaving Riala alone on the lawn with mouth agape.

The headquarters of the Wanderers of Mossflower was well hidden, but not too difficult for a woodwise squirrel to find. She had traded in her usual forest-hued tunic for white and gray breeches and a long-sleeved shirt the same hue, protection against the winter chill. She was determined not to repeat her mistake of a year earlier.

The Wanderers headquarters was a treehouse, cunningly disguised by woven branches and deadfall. Spring would have hidden the arboreal building more fully though, and Riala had little trouble finding it. She leapt silently to the entrance, a gap in the thick mesh of branches, and padded into the treehouse.

It was smaller than she'd expected. An oil lamp sat unlit on a desk that took up one side of the sole room, papers spilling over the edges of the cluttered table. The two adjacent walls held numerous scrolls in ceiling-to-floor holders. Myriad weapons hung on either side of the entrance.

A floorboard creaked as Riala crossed the tiny room. She froze for several long moments, tufted ears turned in the direction of the doorway, but nobeast came to investigate. Satisfied that she remained undetected, the squirrel drew her dagger from its sheath and a block of flint from her belt pouch, lighting the dry wick with ease. At last she could turn her attention to the records that filled the room, illuminated now by the lamp's soft glow.

The wick had burned low when the acrid scent of vulpine sent Riala's hackles on end. _Fox…! _Unrolling a scroll further with one paw, she worked her dagger free with the other. The same board that had startled her earlier creaked with a hesitant weight. Her cue to act. She leapt out of the chair and whirled, crossing the floor in a single bound and setting her blade against thick black fur.

The touch of chill metal drew a sharp breath from the fox, slitted green eyes widening. "How did you get in here, _fox?_" Riala's rough voice was a hiss.

"Used the ladder," the black vixen said, mouth barely opening enough to let the words out. "What are _you _doing here? You're not a Wanderer…"

"And I suppose you are?"

The fox's eyes narrowed at the implication. "Aye."

"You're a fox!" Disbelief was clear in the squirrel's cold gaze.

"So you judge me by my race." There was an anger in the fox's soft voice, and a sadness. "As close-minded as the reset of your kind."

"I…" _Talk ter th' 'scum' first afore ye judge, squirrel! _"I don't… Seasons!" She jerked her dagger away and thrust it into its sheath, movements rough and furious. The vixen didn't move from her spot in the middle of the room, watching the squirrel with a wary gaze. "There's no such thing as a good vermin!" Riala said finally.

"You truly believe that?"

"Nobeast's ever proved me wrong!"

A brief frown passed across the fox's face. "It's easier to believe that, I suppose. Makes it really simple knowing who to trust, doesn't it? Foxes are vermin, so they're all evil. Squirrels are goodbeasts, so they're all good. Right?"

"You make it sound as if I think all vermin are evil merely because it's easier," Riala said.

"That might be part of it," the vixen agreed, "but I'm sure much of it comes from experience…"

"Aye, it does! I've seen the worst sides of your kind, not just foxes but weasels and ferrets and wolverines. I've hunted and killed your type, killed the slavers and the murderers…"

"And yet you become a murderer yourself in the process."

"_I bring justice!"_

"_Your_ idea of justice. Does that include mercy?"

Riala turned away from that unwavering gaze. "It did once. But vermin don't respect mercy."

"You think you're the only one who's been hurt by vermin?" A hint of disgust colored the fox's tone.

"I know I'm not. I've seen slaves. I've seen creatures who have lost all they loved to vermin. As did I…"

"And as did I."

Scorn laced the squirrel's voice. "You're vermin."

"So I can't love? I can't grieve? I can't have a family, a mother, brothers and sisters?" Her voice rose in volume with each word, choked with threatening tears. "_I can't lose my family to a brood of my own kind?!"_

Riala turned, slow and stunned, to stare at the black vixen's grief-ravaged face. _That can't be faked… I know that look too well. _"Your own kind…?"

"Aye, a brood of foxes. Like killing like for no reason… none but that we would not join them. And I just a kit… Who do you trust when you can't even trust your own? It's easy for you. You can trust all goodbeasts, distrust all vermin. I can't even trust goodbeasts. I can't even hate vermin because I am oneand I know they're _not all evil!"_

Shock froze her into eternity as lifelong beliefs crumbled around her, fractured by the undeniable truth of the vixen's words, backed by the all-too-recognizable grief and pain in her voice. Distantly she realized that her head was swiveling from side to side in slow denial, as if of its own will. "No… I…"

"Don't." Her green eyes hardened at the shadow of pity lurking behind the shock in the squirrel's gaze. "I don't want your pity or anybeast else's. Just don't judge so quickly." She turned to go.

"Wait," Riala called, finding her voice at last. "What is your name?"

The fox stopped, silhouetted against the entrance. "Shadow de Vulpes. And you?"

"Riala Goldential."

"Well met, I hope." And she was gone.

"So you wish to join the Wanderers."

Riala met the mouse's scrutinizing gaze levelly, unperturbed by the flat tone. "Aye, I do."

Brook's eyes narrowed, never wavering from the squirrel's face. "I was told that you may have some problems with the race of certain Wanderers," she said.

"Ah… that's been resolved," Riala said quietly, looking to the wood-planked floor of the Wanderers headquarters.

"Then you won't be fighting our members every chance you get?"

She shook her head. "I'll fight only those who show themselves to be evil."

"Good." The mouse glanced over the form in her paws, filled out minutes ago by Riala. "You've been a lone fighter most of your life… are you willing to take orders?"

"Aye."

"You would have to do whatever those above you in rank commanded you to do," Brook continued. "You'd start out at the lowest rank, a scout. You'd have to follow mission instructions to the letter. Some missions will have you scout out a situation or spy on some vermin and not harm them, only report back your findings and nothing else. Are you willing to do that?"

She hesitated for several moments, protests scampering through her mind until her words betrayed her. "Aye."

The mouse nodded, satisfied with the reluctant agreement. "How long are you planning to stay?"

"I'm not certain," Riala said, shadows turning gold-brown eyes dark. "Only until I hear news of the Longclaws' whereabouts."

"Very well then." Brook dipped a quill into the inkwell and jotted a few notes onto the sheet. That done, she reached into the desk and pulled out a small object, handing it to the squirrel. "Your rank insigna," she explained. "We don't have uniforms since most of the Wanderers prefer their own attire, but this will mark you as one of us."

It was a smooth circle, wooden so as not to catch an enemy's eye with a stray gleam of light. Riala clipped it over the simple clasp of her pale cloak. "Thank you."

Brook's answer was a slight nod of acknowledgement. "Welcome to the Wanderers, Riala Goldentail."


	6. Wanderers of Mossflower

**Vengeance Quest**

Note: Kaylen, Shadow de Vulpes, Brook, and Onestrype all belong to other people, all of which no longer roleplay on the ROC. I received permission from Kaylen, Brook, and Onestrype to use their characters in Vengeance Quest; I couldn't find Shadow's roleplayer. All characters are very likely changed from what they should be like, but as their roleplayers no longer roleplay them, I hope it doesn't matter much.

Chapter 6: Wanderers of Mossflower 

"Patrol… what fun…" Riala shook her head, leaping across branches to another tree. She moved without hurry, scarred paws beating a steady tattoo on the solid wood. Brook's words marched through her mind, keeping time with the drum of her paws.

_Patrol duty is a regular job here. A network of scouts throughout Mossflower lets us know when somebeast enters the woods, who it is, what their intentions are, and we can take action before they do any harm. Even when you're not on duty, keep your eyes open for suspicious types._

It was good sense, a good system, but seasons! It was _boring!_

_ Besides that, it ought to help you learn your way about the woodlands. You might even chance upon one of the other Wanderers while you're patrolling. And…_ Brook had paused, a tiny smile playing about her face, _you might find news of the wolverine while you're at it._

It was a candied chestnut held just out of reach, temptation and bait for the trap. Riala _knew _the mouse's words were meant to bring about willing cooperation, she _knew _she was being manipulated. She didn't care. The mere thought of the Longclaws was enough to send hate flaring up full force; the slim chance of finding news of her enemy was enough to send her, docile and uncomplaining, to patrol.

_How deeply I am controlled, _she thought, wry and not quite sarcastic. Even she was unsure whether she referred to this patrol or the hatred that drove her. And again, with a callousness that once would have shocked her… she didn't care.

_Crack!_

The sound echoed through the forest, startling the squirrel into the air, and she landed on a thicker branch with roce in paw, staring about wildly. _Foolish, lost in thought, spinning amidst the clouds like some wool-headed abbeybeast… Idiot!_

It wasn't her perch that made the sound of a tree splitting in two. Nor was it any vermin she could see or sense. Tufted ears flicked back and forth, her nose twitched at a stray breeze, and her eyes widened at the rank scent of mustelid.

_Ferret? No, this is stronger… badger?_

The breeze drifted, raised a tunnel of powdery snow, returned. _Yes… definitely badger._

Cautious now, attention fixed firmly in the present and on her surroundings, she made her way to the source of the noise. It wasn't hard to find. She only needed to follow her nose and her ears, for more cracks soon followed the first.

It _was _a badger, huge and black, with a single white stripe running from nosetip to tail. He stood over a gigantic fallen tree, breaking off limb after limb with massive paws. It was the ease with which he tore apart branches almost as thick as his solidly muscular arms that caused Riala to stop and stare from her perch, fascinated.

The badger paused to shake snow from his coat and then stilled, rounded ears swiveling in the squirrel's direction, nose testing the wind. He rounded on her with surprising speed, jerking a double-headed axe from the snow as he turned. The axe turned slowly to a position for attack as his dark brown eyes probed the treetops.

"Might as well come out," he growled, a low rumble deep in his throat. "I can smell you, treebusher." His gaze traveled across the motionless squirrel to the next tree, stopped, returned to set on her. "And see you."

Wary but not too concerned that the badger was hostile, Riala dropped to the forest floor, not yet putting aside her throwing club. They stood there across the bark-littered ground, sharp gazes noting hard muscle and a fighter's coiled readiness for action. Silence sparkled with the snow, drawn tight with the tension in the air until the badger saw the wooden circle on the squirrel's cape and shattered the quiet with a word.

"Wanderer." It was a grunt of acknowledgement, perhaps a greeting. "You new?"

"Aye." Taut muscles loosened the slightest bit as Riala saw the symbol on the other's collar, an oaken circle striped with red.

"Thought so. I'm Onestrype Durando." With a curt nod, the badger returned to breaking up the fallen tree.

"Riala Goldentail," she said, watching him. "What are you doing?"

He broke another limb in two before replying, "Getting firewood." At her odd glance to the tree, he relented and let a few more carefully hoarded words break loose. "Tree's been here a while now. Nobeast else is using it."

"Oh." Something was odd about that explanation, about the badger's actions. "Why does one beast need so much wood?"

This time Onestrype actually stopped ripping apart the hapless tree to look at her, impatience kindling in dark brown eyes. "Most of us have dwellings in the woods. You should find one if you plan to spend much time here." He turned back to his growing pile of firewood. "Wood's hard to find this time of year. I'm stockpiling."

_Quiet fellow, _Riala thought as the taciturn badger moved down the tree to a lower branch. _Suppose I ought to leave him alone._

Onestrype ignored her farewell, never turning from his task as the squirrel took to the treetops once more.

The white-caped ground rolled steadily past beneath her footpaws as Riala resumed her patrol. _A drey. _It was an odd thing to think about. The last time she'd lived in a drey was… she'd lost track of the seasons. She'd been a wanderer ever since her father died, making only temporary camps, sometimes staying a while at somebeast's dwelling, never at a drey of her own.

But it made sense… With no idea of how long she'd be staying in Mossflower, it was a bit silly to camp every day when a semi-permanent dwelling would work far better. Where, then, to make her drey? Not something she'd thought about much in her travels…

It had to be hidden, that was a must. In the trees if possible; not many save other squirrels could reach it then. Size didn't matter, only that it was well concealed. A wide-trunked tree, probably an oak, build it up… Now to find a good tree.

She paused in the middle of the tree she'd been running along and blinked. "Well, well…" Widespread branches, thick and gnarled and sturdy, stretched out almost horizontal to touch the pines and firs surrounding the massive oak. Brambles snarled the dense brush below, far from any trail. A rare smile quirked at the corners of Riala's mouth.

"Perfect."

_Nameday!_

The word rustled through the trees along a messenger breeze, whispered with gleeful anticipation. The new spring leaves came alive with the excited rumor passed from woodlander to woodlander, and the Abbey bells tolled out the news, inviting all to come.

_Nameday! Nameday! _they sang, ringing clear through Mossflower. _Come and gather, celebrate, feast! Nameday! Nameday!_

Riala heard the bells as she scurried about her drey, pressing new-dug ivy into dirt-filled trenches about the place, coaxing them up around poles and lattices. Tufted ears pricked into the wind, and her paws stilled on a spade-leafed tendril. _Spring Nameday… perhaps I ought to go this time. _She'd been either stuck in bed or unwilling to take part in such a huge gathering the past few Namedays. Still, if she was going to be staying here very long…

Well, it wasn't till tomorrow. Time enough to work on her drey some more.

Odd how much she enjoyed working on the place. There was a strange satisfaction in making something with her own paws, and she'd worked on the drey every chance she had. She'd woven branches together to make the walls and the roof, tried growing ivy to camouflage the dwelling, filled in the many chinks with moss. Riala hummed along with the ringing bells as she climbed a nearby branch and dropped through the opening in the drey's roof.

Her mostly finished forest-hued tunic lay on the cot. She made a distasteful face at the sight of the garment. "I hate sewing," the squirrel muttered, "but I'd better finish this before Nameday…"

A few stitches, a flip of the tunic to turn it right-side-out, and she shed her somewhat ragged and no-longer-white tunic, exchanging it for the green-brown-gray one. "Much better," she said, then paused as the bells rang out again. "It's been too long since I've visited Redwall… Why wait 'till tomorrow?"

The massive gates of Redwall stood wide open for the visitors from Mossflower Country and beyond. Constant activity grew in and around that entrance, voices yelling greetings and introductions and orders, laughter bubbling with pure elation at the meeting of old friends long unseen, exclamations at changes and compliments on guest-brought food.

Riala hung back from the commotion on the dusty path and at the gate, standing in the greengold shadowlight of spring leaves and sun at the edge of the forest. Rustling in the brush behind her caused her to whirl about, roce in paw, crouching as if to fight. Then Kaylen stepped into sight, and she relaxed.

"Hello."

The otter grinned as Riala returned the throwing club to her belt. "G'day, matey. Ye goin' ter th' Nameday feast t'morrow?"

"Aye." The squirrel glanced at the flow of visitors to Redwall and shrugged. "Was thinking about visiting the abbey before it started but… it looks busy now."

"Not too busy f'r anybeast," the otter said. "Nobeast'll protest yore comin' ter Redwall."

"I suppose…" Riala paused and looked at her otter friend, a thought occurring to her. "Why aren't _you _at Redwall?"

"Patrol," Kaylen explained. "Some of us Wanderers're patrollin' th' woods while th' gates're open, makin' sure no vermin types slip in."

"Oh." She frowned, gaze flicking to the gates again. "Am I supposed to be patrolling?"

"Nay, it's shipshape. Only takes a fewbeasts."

The squirrel nodded. "Who's on patrol?"

"Onestrype, Kathryn, Selan, Tamlin, Bravestripe, meself…" Kaylen shrugged. "Not a huge group, ye see. But enow."

"You'll be coming tomorrow?"

"Aye, wouldn't miss a Redwall feast f'r anythin'!" She grinned, white teeth flashing bright in the sable face. "Be there t'morrow. Ye go 'ave fun, hear?"

She smiled despite herself. "Aye, matey."

The otter snorted at the mimicry of her marine accent and gave Riala a small push in the direction of the abbey. "Get goin'!"

The next day's feast was mind-boggling. Feasters of every size and shape and species filled the Great Hall to its maximum. Otter acrobats, hedgehog magicians, and hare jesters all conspired to make the abbey a cacophony of sound and whirling color. Trays and dishes, platters and bowls filled the air with an overwhelming orchestra of tantalizing scents, and many of the feasters made a game of trying to guess the contents.

"That must be deeper'n'ever pie – it's large enough!"

"'Otroot soup, matey. C'n smell it from 'ere!"

"I say, lids an' such can't fool a bally hare, wot! That'll be leek'n'gravy pastries, doncherknow, an' those 'ave t'be cinnamon oatcakes!"

"Get you'm paws offer et, you'm walkin' stomach. Oi baked et moiself. T'ain't oatcakes et all, zurr."

"First Redwall feast, brushtail?"

Riala blinked at the quiet voice and turned to see the nightblack form of Shadow de Vulpes. "That it is, fox," she said, voice even and cool. "How did you get into the abbey?"

Slit green eyes narrowed at the implication. "Same way as you."

A hare two seats from Riala waved his already laden fork to the empty spot next to the squirrel. "Hi Shadow, 'ere's a place! Join in, wot?"

"I don't know…" She looked to Riala as she spoke, her gaze level and somewhat accusing. "I'm not sure if I'm welcome."

"Nobeast'll complain if you sit," Riala said with a shrug, averting her gaze.

The vixen watched the squirrel's tense form with still-narrowed gaze, then took a seat. She glanced at the hare's fork and a faint smile touched her angular face. "Tsk, tsk, Taris. Snitching food already?"

"Snitching?" he exclaimed, ears standing up straight, quivering with indignation. "Bad form, ol' gel, accusin' a chap of stealin'! Jolly bad form!"

"What do you call that, then?" Shadow asked, nodding to the overloaded fork.

Taris eyed the morsel for a moment before shoving it into his mouth. "Call wot?" he asked past a full mouth, waving the empty fork under the fox's nose.

Riala watched the banter with mingled confusion and surprise. _A hare and a fox, joking about at a Redwall Nameday feast table… who would have thought it?_

Abbess Rosemary stood at the table's head, and silence dropped on the hall like a thick blanket. "Today is the first day of the Spring of Early Blooms," the ancient albino mouse announced. "Let us thank the seasons for this rich bounty."

"Squirrels, otters, hedgehogs, mice,  
Moles with fur like sable,  
Gathered in good spirits all,  
Round this festive table.  
Sit we down to eat and drink.  
Friends, before we do, lets think.  
Fruit of forest, field and banks,  
To the springtime we give thanks."

With a clatter of plates and utensils, Redwallers and guests alike fell to the feast, chatting about food and events. Riala took a pastry and a slice of deeper'n'ever pie and tasted them, blinking at the rich flavor. "S'good," she murmured past a mouthful of beets and potatoes.

"Aye, but ye've 'ad nothin' yet, matey!" Kaylen ladeled soup into the squirrel's bowl, then filled her own bowl as she sat down on the opposite side of the table. "Otter specialty. Best stuff on th' table." She grinned over at Shadow as she spooned the soup into her mouth with relish. "'Allo, de Vulpes!"

Shadow nodded to the other Wanderer and watched Riala expectantly, mouth twitching as if to hold back laughter. The squirrel looked from otter to fox and back again, then at the reddish soup, suspicious. She shrugged, threw caution to the wind, downed a spoonful of the thick liquid…

…and dove immediately for the cherry cordial, gulping it down frantically. When the tears brought forth by the fiery concoction finally subsided enough to see clearly, Riala tried choking words past her burning tongue. "What _is _this stuff?"

Shadow no longer attempted to hold back peals of laughter, but Kaylen merely continued shoveling down soup with clear enjoyment. "'Otroot soup. Nothin' 'otter fer an otter! Needs more 'otroot though." She scooped up a bowl of red powder and shook it liberally into her soup. Riala watched aghast, a sympathetic burning flaring up on her tongue as the otter swallowed more hotroot soup. "Aye, that's about right. Oh, 'allo Oney."

Onestrype nodded in return greeting, sinking into a spare seat and piling his plate high with all manner of fare. To Riala's surprise, he also filled a large bowl with hotroot soup and downed it with as much relish as Kaylen.

The otter noticed Riala's expression and chuckled. "Don't worry yeself o'er it, bushbrush," she said. "Many's a beast that can't eat 'otroot. Takes an otter'r a badger'r th' like."

"Tell that to the mouse," Shadow said, nodding to a slight young mouse drinking the spicy concoction straight out of his bowl.

"Good job there, matey!" Kaylen called to the youngling.

He grinned at the otter and refilled his bowl. "I'm gonna be as big as ye, waterdog!" he proclaimed.

"What, ye're sayin' I'm fat?"

Riala chuckled despite herself. The otter was solidly built, hard muscle through and through, not an ounce of fat on her—but she was certainly not small. Otters rarely were. "He's saying you're bigger than he is."

"Aye, I should 'ope so!" Kaylen winked at the mouse. "'E's a twig! More 'otroot f'r ye, shipmate. T'will put muscle on those bones o' yores."

Riala took a bite of her pastry as the banter flew thick and fast. Here in Redwall, among good friends and good food and good cheer, all thought of Nightdeath and battle faded beyond the sandstone walls that blocked off more than just vermin. Time blurred by, talk remained on inconsequentialities, and trials were forgotten for the remainder of the feast.

Mission by mission, day by day, Riala settled into Wanderer life. She gained rank steadily, from Scout to Traveler to Tracker. Spring waned to summer with rising temperatures and longer days. Rarely did the squirrel have to battle though. Many missions dealt with finding runaway dibbuns, or investigating odd happenings, or patrolling an area of Mossflower. Small jobs, dull and tedious. She began itching for action, and one day in late spring a slip of paper came to break the monotony.

"Another lost dibbun?" the squirrel asked, taking the mission explanation from Shadow. Time and association had worn the racial barrier between them to rubble, and she'd begun to see the vixen as a friend.

The fox shook her head. "Don't think so. Where'd you find that one, anyway?"

"Locked himself in the food pantry, the little glutton." She chuckled at the memory. "Got himself sick with candied chestnuts." The seal broke with the flick of a claw and she scanned the words briefly.

_Mission: A small group of slavers has been seen near the North Path up by the ruins of St. Ninian's. Free the slaves and bring them to Redwall._

A feral grin etched its way across Riala's scarred visage. "Slaver group," she said. "Finally some action!"

"Need some help?"

Riala glanced through the paper again. "Nay, 'tis only a small group." She checked her dagger and roce, then nodded farewell to Shadow. "Thanks—I'll see you soon." With that, she scurried up a nearby tree and headed north.

She found the slavers almost by accident. It seemed they knew of the Wanderers and were attempting silence. Only movement, the flicker of light on linked steel, the stench of mustelid on a shifting wind, alerted the squirrel to the vermin below.

Chain clinked and a youngling whimpered. The hiss of a whip provoked a scream, quickly muffled, and a curse. "Oy, scum-fer-brains, wot kinda idiot _are _yew?" The reprimand was issued in a harsh whisper followed by a solid slap that rang through the woods. "Ya wanna bring alla woodies in th' forest down on our 'eads? Keep 'em quiet! No whips, else I'll use th' things on _yew _if we get outta 'ere!"

Riala crept down the tree to a lower branch, peering through the leaves for a better view. Three slavers that she could see, maybe a fourth at the end of the ten-slave chain. A stoat, a rat, a weasel. The slaves were all woodlanders, most young, all worn and blank eyed, all with whip-scarred backs.

Her jaw tightened at the sight. _Just the three of them… no difficulty. _Her roce slid from the belt into her calloused paw and she threw. The heavy stick crashed into the weasel's head, then a tug on the long cord sent it flying back into her paw.

"Wha…" The rat gaped at the fallen slaver, shocked. "Grulig!"

The stoat stared about, trying to figure out what killed his fellow slaver. The roce tumbled his way this time but he heard the rustle as it crashed through the leaves and ducked. Riala cursed, leapt to the ground, slinging her dagger as she landed. It buried itself to the hilt in the stoat's chest. He looked at it, at her, then fell with a rattling gasp.

A tumbling roll ended with dagger and roce returned to calloused paws. The squirrel whirled to face the astonished rat only to catch a whip across her face, fire slashing from ear to chin. "Ye'll die naow, rat," she snarled, ignoring the blood dripping past her eyes.

Fear touched his ungroomed face but he shook out his whip and stood firm. The lash hissed and Riala struck out her arm. It curled about like a vine strangling a tree. She tensed, yanked, and the whip flew from the rat's paws. A shake of her arm and it rattled free. Riala's roce arm drew back…

_"Look out!"_

A cry from one of the slaves, a flash of triumph on the rat's face. She hit the earth, rolled, and an arrow thudded into the ground. When she returned to her footpaws, gathered her bearings, the rat stood with retrieved whip in paw. A ferret archer waited at the treeline, an arrow fixed on the squirrel's throat. Brush rustled and out stepped a stoat, a long saber gleaming in one paw.

"Who'll die t'day, brushtail?" The rat smirked, tapping his whip on his thigh. "Yew… or me?"

"Ye, I believe," Riala said, and dove. An arrow whistled overhead, the stoat ran forward, but they were all too late… her dagger sliced past the flailing lash and slashed across the rat's chest. He fell back, she dove again, the bow twanged…

"Hold!"

The shout froze all motion, turned every gaze to the slender black fox that held a slim knife to a young slave's pale neck. "Don't yew move, treejumper, or this brushtail dies." The little squirrelmaid stared straight ahead, unblinking, unafraid. Her expression held only resigned acquiescence.

Riala gaped at the sight of Shadow de Vulpes with a dagger to a youngling's throat. _Can't trust vermin… _Her old adage, nearly discarded in the past season, rang through her mind. _Was I wrong to trust Shadow?_

"'Ey, thanks vixen!" the rat said with a rasping laugh, holding one arm to the too-shallow gash across his chest. He advanced on the motionless squirrel as the stoat sheathed his blade and the ferret stowed her bow. Riala took a step back, gaze flicking to Shadow. The knife tightened on the squirrelmaid's throat, the vixen's eyes hardened to emerald.

"Stay right there, brushtail," she hissed. "Less yew don't care what 'appens ter this mangypaws."

_I don't care… _She almost said it, would have been mostly truthful in the telling until she met the squirrelmaid's gaze. Emptiness reigned in those brownblack eyes, the shadows of a soul near death, a darkness that mirrored the void in Riala's own eyes. She stilled, kept her silence, locked by empathy to the nightoak gaze, unable to look away as all three slavers advanced.

Motion flickered, sunlight flashed on steel, and the ferret archer fell with a gurgling cry, a dagger in her throat. It broke the strange connection, gold-brown gaze following the gleam of the blade to its destination, confusion flicking shadow over the scarred face. Riala stared from ferret to fox, bewildered as the twin to the killing dagger appeared in Shadow's paw. It too sliced through the air, digging its lifehungry length into the swordstoat's ribs.

The squirrel didn't wait to weigh Shadow's actions in her mind. She whirled on the rat, hurling her roce into his skull. Already stunned by the surprise whirlwind of steel, he didn't see the sturdy throwing club until it caved in his head. A yank of the cord returned the stick to her paw, and she turned to face Shadow de Vulpes.

They regarded each other over fallen bodies and huddled slaves. Silence stretched tense between squirrel and fox, words unspoken littering the air. Riala spoke first.

"I didn't need any help."

The triangular head tilted slightly, questioning. "Really. With an arrow aimed at your heart and a swordsbeast and whiprat on either side."

A shrug. "Not a very good archer. Shot at me twice, missed both times."

"She would have hit you eventually."

"Would she?"

Shadow grimaced. "I'm no seer, but you looked like you needed help."

"What if I'd killed you? I thought for sure you were vermin." Riala stared down at the wet gleam of blood on the dagger in her paw, remembering the betrayal she'd felt. Even now it lingered, distrust a shadow nibbling at the fringes of her mind.

"It would have meant killing the squirrelmaid."

The squirrel looked away to the woods, unable to meet the young slave's gaze again. "I might have tried to kill you anyway," she said, voice quiet. "Maybe I'd have killed you before you could kill the youngling."

Again the questioning look, probing deep. "And maybe not."

Silence. Riala ran one scarred paw along the dagger's reddened length, cleaning off the blood, staining her paws with midnight fire. "That's what scares me." A tentative whisper, barely audible.

Shadowed gold-brown eyes met summer green. She couldn't read the myriad emotions in the vixen's gaze, wasn't sure she wanted to. The fox looked away first, to the huddled slaves, took a deep breath. "We'd better bring them to Redwall."

Riala nodded slowly, glancing at the young squirrelmaid who stared about as if seeing things for the first time. "Aye… let's go."

To watch the freed slaves enter Redwall was to watch a rebirth. Light sparked, flickered, caught in shadowed eyes; hunched backs straightened; drooping ears pricked with interest. The abbeybeasts fussed over each freed slave, bathed them, clothed them, fed them. Freedom was a healing draught first sipped tentatively, as if afraid it would be snatched away, then gulped down with relish and awe and celebration.

The young squirrelmaid apparently decided she had some sort of life debt to Riala. She latched onto the older squirrel, a ginger-red shadow that followed Riala's every move, nightoak eyes wide and shining with hero worship. It was hard to ignore. Riala tried just that for nearly an hour until she turned and almost collided with the youngling.

"Would you _please _stop that!" she said, half shouting, exasperation pushing volume into her rough voice.

The squirrelmaid cringed, cowered, backed against the wall. A flicker of fear drew the shadows back into her gaze, a darkness that was slow to fade. Riala relented before the reversion to save mannerisms. "No… don't do that. I didn't mean it." Her voice did not lend itself well to softness but she tried. The tensed starved limbs relaxed minutely but the dark brown eyes still held caution, uncertainty. Riala bent down to the youngling's level, surprisingly not much lower than her own height—she was older than she appeared. "What is your name?"

Hesitation, a long glance at the ground. "I was… The slavers called me Scumbrush, ma'am. 'Cos me tail were so dirty'n all."

"Scumbrush?" Riala stared, shocked. After a bath and new clothes, the young squirrelmaid (she _refused _to think of her as … that degrading name) was actually quite pretty, her fur a fiery ginger red, her throat purest white.

The squirrelmaid swallowed, gaze fixed on her white-tipped paws. "Yes'm."

Silence, her mind empty of words. She forced out a question, determined to find another name. "What was your name before the slavers?"

"Dunno, ma'am. Been a slave long's I c'n 'member."

_It's not as if you haven't seen lives like this before, _she scolded herself, angry at the horror she felt at the youngling's story. Another part of her argued that this was different… but how? No answer came from that silent voice, and she tried again. "What—what do you want to be called?"

The squirrelmaid lifted her head at last, and now there was a determined set to her chin, a spark of fire in the nightoak eyes. "Malaya, ma'am. One of t'others tol' me it means _freedom. _An' that's what I be. Free. I won't e'er go back t'bein' a slave." Passion gave her voice volume and emphasis; truth and conviction shone in her gaze. "I'll _die _first."

Riala nodded slowly, the squirrelmaid's unbroken spirit striking a chord within her. "Malaya, then. A much nicer name than Scumbrush, and I think it fits you far better." She smiled, placed a calloused paw on the bony shoulders. "Will you stay at Redwall?"

Uncertainty gave her pause as she stared at the sunrise walls, took in the smell of food and the sound of laughter, but her gaze returned to Riala and her voice held unerring decision. "No, ma'am. I wants t'join th' Wanderers."

"Really?" Odd that she should be surprised, but she was. "Why?"

"'Cos then I c'n help others get free. An' I c'n help keep creatures _stayin' _free."

_How she values her freedom… but she has been a slave so long that it must be more precious than life, now. _"Aren't you a bit young for the Wanderers?"

"Uh-uh." She shook her head decisively. "I's not a child, ma'am. I wants to be a Wanderer like you. C'n I stay with you?"

That unexpected question startled a laugh from the squirrel. She couldn't refuse; somehow she'd accepted Malaya as her shadow already, even welcomed her. "Aye, you may. But Malaya… my name's Riala, not _ma'am._"

Elation lit up Malaya's face and she smiled from ear to ear, belatedly remembering to answer. "Yes'm—er, yes, Riala!"

Another laugh bubbled up from her throat and she gave the young squirrelmaid a slight push towards the dinner table. "Go eat first," she said with a grin. "You could use some meat on those bones. Maybe some hotroot soup will do you some good."


	7. Restlessness

**Vengeance Quest**

Chapter 7: Restlessness 

Malaya wasted very little time settling into Riala's drey. Though Riala had worried that the emaciated squirrelmaid wouldn't be strong enough to travel the winding treetop pathways to the drey, Malaya proved her wrong by making several trips from Redwall to the drey and back in the ensuing days, lugging blankets and pillows along with her. She claimed it was all the work under the lash that made her strong, but that freedom gave her the will to labor and the endurance to continue.

_Freedom. _Her name, her heart, her spirit. The young squirrel drank deep of freedom and found it to be life; she named herself for it, she grew happy under it, she clung to it with all her heart. Riala knew Malaya would fight for freedom too, would give her life for it, and somehow that frightened Riala. If this embodiment of freedom and life died…

She frowned, looking down at the squirrelmaid's sleeping form, all tired fragile innocence, shattered but beginning to mend. How had she gotten so attached so quickly? This wasn't like her, not at all. It was dangerous, it was foolish, it was… it was impossible to change. Riala smiled slightly, sadly. Perhaps it was the helplessness; perhaps the way the youngling reminded her of herself; perhaps the fierce love of freedom; perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps any number of things but it didn't matter now; Malaya had wormed her way into Riala's heart and there was no pushing her out.

The scarred squirrel stretched out on her pallet on the floor; Malaya had the cot and was welcome to it. Riala had patrol duty tomorrow. Maybe she'd bring Malaya along, even though the squirrelmaid wasn't really a Wanderer yet. Too young, too new. Still, it was probably a bad idea to leave the youngling in the drey alone. Who knows what trouble a young squirrel can get into? Riala's mouth twisted into a wry grin at the rambling pathways of her thoughts. _Definitely tired… _She closed her eyes, took a few even breaths, and drifted into a light sleep.

Malaya took the news with wide-eyed delight. "You mean I'm goin' on patrol?"

"What else would you do—stay here with idle paws?" A grin stretched across Riala's scarred face as she tucked her roce and dagger into her belt. "You have a weapon, 'Aya?"

The walnut brown eyes widened even further. "Ne'er touched one _e'er,_ ma'am—Riala. Am I gonna 'ave one then?"

A chuckle escaped Riala's throat. "Aye, you'll have to," she said. "That can wait, though. For this patrol you'll be fine so long as you keep to the trees." Her head tilted, gold-brown gaze scrutinizing the squirrelmaid's thin form. "Are you up to it? We'll be out all day."

"I'll be fine! Promise!"

The eagerness in Malaya's face tossed all reservations to the thorns below the drey. Riala handed her a lumpy pouch. "Waybread. Not much by way of taste, but it'll keep your stomach filled. Let's begin."

They headed south above the dirt path, scanning the ground below for anything out of the ordinary. "This is usually what it's like," Riala said at the sound of Malaya's restless sigh. "Uneventful. But necessary…" Her low monotone drifted into silence as she dodged a mass of dead foliage, not slowing her pace. A wry grin tugged at her mouth when the sound of crackling brush erupted behind her. "Of course, it might be that you're warning off all the vermin with that racket."

"I didn't see it!"

Riala turned, watched the young squirrelmaid wrestle free of the leaves and twigs, her ginger coat bringing most of the dry brush along. Malaya scowled, tugging leaves and bark free from her tail. "It was right there, mid-limb, in plain sight. Why didn't you see it?" The youngling mumbled something and Riala tilted her head, ears pricked to catch her grumbling. "Well?"

"Was lookin' at th' ground." Reluctant, irritated, then suddenly defensive. "You tol' me to!"

"I told you to keep an eye on the ground for vermin and the like," Riala said, voice mild, amusement gleaming in gold-brown eyes. "Not both eyes, certainly not all your senses. I had my attention on the ground but I didn't run into the dead limb, did I?"

"But—"

Malaya's protest was silenced by the sudden raising of Riala's paw. The older squirrel's head tilted, tufted ears flicking one direction, then another, searching for repetition of a noise heard only vaguely past the murmured conversation.

_There._ The bell-clang of steel on steel accompanying a rumbling growl, crackling on the wind like lightning.

"What…?"

"Battle. Hurry." Riala broke into a run, chasing the din through the treetops. After a moment's confused hesitation Malaya followed, claws clicking on the bark.

The noise grew louder as the two squirrels drew nearer, battle-din drumming in their ears, thrumming up the trees to beat a steady tattoo on flying paws, singing in rushing blood. Closer still and the breeze carried the smells of the duelers, rank musk. Mustelid—badger, and something else, a scent half-recognized that boiled Riala's mind with hate…

_Wolverine!_

"Ri-Riala?"

She whirled, impatient anger snapping from her throat in a growl. _"What?"_

Wide nightoak eyes met her temper, softening it to guilt. Malaya's face held fright and timidity, transformed in a single moment to her days as a slave. Riala realized with a trickle of shame that it was _she_ who had so frightened the youngling, that the one whiff of wolverine had completely altered Riala's countenance to that of a demon: gold-brown eyes sparking hatred, teeth bared with vicious fury, hackles lifted, crouched into a fighting stance.

She closed her eyes, forced her taut muscles to relax, breathed deep to calm down. "I'm sorry, Aya… it's not you. It's…"

Steel clanged on steel, interrupting Riala's broken explanation. She tensed once more, motioned to Malaya. "I'll explain later. Somebeast might need help."

The youngling nodded hastily and both squirrels raced once more to the clash and clang of battle.

It _was _a wolverine, a lithesome female, all russet marbled with cream, a fluid whirlwind of savage death. Riala didn't miss the flicker of admiration and awe that touched Malaya's face at the sight. She turned her own gaze to the wolverine and spoke with a strange casualness to her tone, almost alien after her near rabid reaction to the creature's scent. "E'er watched a thunderstorm? Beautiful in power. Lightnin', thunder, dark clouds, roarin' wind… Hard tae believe sometimes that the storm can kill ye an' burn down all o' Mossflower wi' only a lightin' bolt or two."

Riala turned, studied the thoughtful look on the squirrelmaid's face, noted the slight confusion lurking in the nightoak gaze. "What be beautiful be often deadly," she said flatly, the steel beginning to show itself in her tone. "Storms, fire, swords—wolverines. _That _one be doin' her best tae kill Onestrype."

And Onestrype it was indeed. The massive badger was of a height with the wolverine, more muscular where she was more agile. He carried an axe, she wielded a saber. Both were evenly matched by all appearances in strength and agility.

"Ain't we gonna 'elp?"

Riala shook her head slowly, eyes fixed on the battle, on the deadly intensity of the fighters that blocked out all else save the whirling dance of blade and blood. "Nay… one distraction means the battle, now. If we tried tae help, we'd do more harm than good."

Silence from Malaya. When Riala turned to see what brought on the sudden still quiet, her gaze met incredulity, even a touch of shock. "How c'n ya be so calm-like? Ent th' badger yer _friend?"_

The older squirrel returned her attention to the battle, breath hissing past clenched teeth to her lungs. "If ye think I be calm, ye be a poorer judge o' body language than I thought." Hard to believe anybeast could miss the tension in every line of her form; the hate pounding at her skull, commanding her to let it free, let it take over and lead her into the blind rage that knew nothing but the desire to _kill…_

"Riala? _Riala!"_

The squirrelmaid's panicked call jerked Riala to sanity. She gripped a nearby branch, drew in a shuddering breath. "I'm fine," she said, voice harsh.

"Ya didn't _look _fine," Malaya said, staring, concern and fright clear in her young face. "Ya looked like somethin' was tearin' ya apart. It was _scary!"_

"Sorry." She had no words left to waste, not when every whiff of wolverine eroded her control, not when every glimpse of long white claws sent her paws twitching towards the weapons in her belt.

A hiss of pain drew her gaze to the battle below. Onestrype's axe bit into the wolverine's paw, caught the blade between haft and head. A mighty twist of massive paws sent the saber flying into the brush, concealed immediately by thick greenery.

The wolverine didn't waste time staring after the sword, didn't try to retrieve it. She darted in windswift, catching the axe hilt with strong paws, claws digging into wood and flesh.

"She's gonna lose," Malaya whispered. "Nobeast's strong's a stripedog!"

"Nobeast but a wolverine," Riala said, quiet and tense. "Naught be certain naow…"

Badger and wolverine strained at the axe in an unmoving tug-of-war. White fangs gleamed in a feral grin and the wolverine opened her claws, a child's trick but effective. Onestrype stumbled back, caught off guard and off balance and the wolverine was on him in that instant. Long claws deadly as any dagger sank into the badger's shoulders, the wolverine's full weight bearing him to the ground like a felled tree. He swung with the axe but she was inside his reach, sinking her teeth into his paw, forcing him to drop the weapon with a roar of fury and pain.

What had been a dance now became a browl, all finesse and thought and skill thrown to the brush with the wolverine's saber, replaced by brute force and a savage single purpose: to kill. The wolverine's jaws snapped for Onestrype's throat only to be backhanded into the dirt. Long claws dug deep into the badger's chest and then were broken off, lodging there apart from the paws as the wolverine was tossed to the side. Her fangs tore at Onestrype's stomach, at his shoulder, his leg, his arm only to be punched and clawed and swiped away, time and time again.

He swung a huge paw at her head. She backpedaled, fell as it grazed her skull, rolled and came up with dirt. The badger roared, fury evident in his blind swings, pawing at his dirt-veiled eyes. Triumph hissed from the wolverine's mouth. She sprang, threw him to the ground, closed bloodstained teeth on his throat.

"_No…!"_

A cry of denial, of protest, ripping from Malaya's throat, eyes wide with horror and shock. Despair that came too early, for Onestrype fought through the pain and the lack of air, one paw reaching—reaching—closing on the fallen axe.

The meaty thud of the blade slicing into the wolverine's back announced her death to all who could hear. Her death—and the battle's end.

Riala burst into motion, dropping to the ground the instant the axe fell. She reached the two prone combatants in a matter of moments, knelt at the badger's head. The wolverine's jaws were locked about Onestrype's throat even in death, choking off air. Riala grasped the deadly jaws, pulled with all her strength to pry them open before time froze the joints to immobility.

"Care tae help, Aya?"

The squirrelmaid appeared almost as quickly, grasping the snout with tentative paws. They pulled, the mouth slid free, and Onestrype drew in a gasping breath. Riala shoved hard at the wolverine's corpse, pushing it off of the badger. One tug freed the axe, exposing muscle and pale bone as the blood drained forth.

"Urk…" Malaya turned decidedly green at the sight. She stumbled into the brush just in time to lose the waybread she'd eaten on the duller portion of the patrol.

Riala ignored the squirrelmaid's plight, all her attention focused on the badger, tallying wounds even as she tore her cloak into bandages. Ravaged throat—she bound that first, expression growing grim as the cloth darkened to black-red in seconds. Gashes in one shoulder from wolverine claws. Bite wound in one paw. Claws broken off in the chest; huge gashes there. Stomach, leg, arm, all torn by dagger-sharp fangs.

"Malaya."

Her voice was quiet but held an urgency that brought the squirrelmaid to her side in an instant, weaving on shaky paws, trying desperately to keep her eyes off of the wolverine carcass. "Yes'm—Riala?"

"Can you climb?"

Malaya clutched her stomach, muzzle gaining a greenish tinge. "Climb?" she said weakly.

Riala tore another strip off her cloak, bound the unconscious badger's shoulder wound. "Either run to Redwall and get a healer or bind wounds. Which one?"

"Er…" The squirrelmaid looked from badger to tree and back again and blanched. "I'll… climb."

"Then go."

Malaya lurched for the closest tree as Riala began extracting the broken claws, expression grim. "Just a while longer, Oney," she said under her breath, setting the bloodstained claw on a nearby rock. "Hold on just a while longer…"

The short minutes' wait for Malaya's return seemed like ages. Riala busied herself with changing the makeshift bandages and pulling out the remaining wolverine claws in Onestrype's chest. It was with relief that she heard pawsteps on the path, saw Malaya pull Sister Bria into view.

The Infirmary sister spared the wolverine's body barely a glance, arrowing in on Onestrype. Her sharp gaze took in the badger's wounds, a brief flicker of concern flashing across her angular face. "Hmph," she said, and began untying bandages, sloshing water from a hefty canteen over each gash. "You do this, brushtail?"

"Aye."

"Hm." Bria looked down at the bloody claws laid out on the rock. "Not bad." She spread some sort of paste on the badger's throat, bound it up tight with a clean white bandage, not even looking up at the sound of running pawsteps up the road.

It was Kaylen. She slowed to a halt at the sight of Onestrype's prone from and the wolverine's body, shock overtaking her usually grinning face. "_Onestrype?" _Her gaze flicked to Riala. "What 'appened, matey?"

"I'm not sure… He fought that wolverine. Killed her." She nodded to the corpse, images of Nightdeath Longclaws flashing through her mind at the sight of the body. Her jaw clenched at the thought.

Kaylen's expression grew grim and she crossed the road to Sister Bria and Onestrype. "Will 'e live?"

The mouse's thin shoulders lifted and fell. "Can't say. I might be wrong an' then ye'll strangle this poor sister. I been wrong afore, ye know." She looked directly at Riala with this last, a slight smile quirking at the corners of her mouth. "Depends on how much th' stripedog wants t'live."

Light pawsteps announced the arrival of yet another creature. It was Shadow this time. She stood just in view, taking in the scene. "I heard Onestrype was wounded…"

Riala glanced from fox to otter and finally to Malaya. "Did you bring all of Mossflower?"

"I was… kinda loud," the squirrelmaid said with a sheepish smile. "Tryin' ta find a healer an' all."

"She came into the abbey yelling about a wolverine, Onestrype being hurt, and demanding a healer." Was that amusement in the vixen's tone? "Is this the squirrelmaid from the slaver mission, Riala?"

"Aye… Changed, isn't she?" Riala said, but the grin in her voice didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze wandered to Bria, still bent over Onestrype, and she pulled it away with difficulty. _Worrying's not going to help…_

Bria's too-familiar scolding jerked her attention back to mouse and badger. "Ye're doin' me no good hoverin' like that, waterdog! Not me or yer friend. I tell ye again—he'll live if he wants t'live an' bad enough. I'm doin' what I can, an' ye're bein' nothin' but a pest, slowin' down what I _can_ do!" Get out of here! Make yeself useful—bring th' Badger Mother an' a cart. Mayhap some strong riverdogs too." She glared when Kaylen didn't move right away. "Well? Go on!" Her glare transferred to Riala and Malaya. "All of ye! Get out of here! I only need onebeast t'stay an' make sure nobeast attacks or such. Not ye!" she growled as Kaylen stepped forth to volunteer. "Ye hover too much. Ye neither," as Riala started to speak, "ye be too contrary. Th' fox be quiet enow. The rest of ye, get! Shoo!"

Kaylen's face contorted into a very odd expression indeed as the three woodlanders retreated to Redwall. The moment they were out of earshot she burst into helpless laughter, doubling over with the hilarity of it. "Didja 'ear that, mates? I 'over too much! Haha, an' Riala, yore _contrary_? At least th' crotchety mouse got _somethin'_ right…"

"And she'd rather a fox to guard against trouble than one of us." Riala shook her head in disbelief. "I think poor Bria needs a healer—a _mental_ one."

Kaylen chuckled. "Ye may be right thar." Then he sobered, looking over her shoulder the way they'd come. "…y'think he'll be shipshape again, mateys?"

That wiped the grins from every face present. Riala's gaze went to the ground rolling past beneath her feet, uncertain of what to say. "I hope so…"

A troubled silence draped about the three woodlanders, broken at last by Malaya's quiet voice. "Who was th' wolverine?"

"I don't know." Riala's tone was troubled, uncertain. The sight of the wolverine… the scent, the sound—it had all brought back memories turned dusty and near-forgotten by her stay at the Wanderers. Redwall and Mossflower were somehow insulating, quieting, bringing out the better aspects of allbeasts within and suppressing the worser ones. She'd become almost relaxed, almost content—but now the old memories and hatreds stirred within, driving her to restlessness.

Malaya watched her closely, nightoak gaze curious and concerned. "Riala…?"

The older squirrel blinked, startled from her reverie. "Aye?"

"Why'd ya be so strange-like when ya saw th' wolverine?"

Riala closed her eyes, drew in a long, slow breath. "You don't want to hear that tale, Aya."

"Mayhap we both do, Riala matey," Kaylen said, watching her intently. "Ye've talked 'bout a black wolverine but ye 'aven't said much else 'sides that yore lookin' for 'im."

"I wants t'hear it," Malaya agreed.

Riala looked away from the expectant gazes. Her voice was hard when she finally spoke, eyes fixed to the ground. "A wolverine killed my father through treachery," she said flatly. "Nightdeath Longclaws and her horde. I swore revenge."

"…Oh." Malaya withdrew into herself, pulled silence about her like a cloak.

Kaylen frowned. "When did this 'appen?"

"I've lost count of the seasons…" Riala's rough voice was abruptly quiet as she pondered. "I was young… maybe Malaya's age. Maybe younger."

"And ye've been huntin' th' wolverine all this time?"

"Aye."

Another long silence from the otter, and then— "That's a long time t'waste on 'ate, Riala."

Anger flared within, sudden and roaring hot. Riala's paws curled into tight fists and she spoke past clenched teeth, deadly cold. "An' we be wastin' time chattin' when we should be makin' our way tae Redwall. I'll be runnin' on ahead." She stalked to a nearby tree, broke into a run once in the treetops, unreasonable anger lending her paws furious speed and pinning her ears back against the startled cries to wait.

_She has no RIGHT!_

Kaylen's face in her mind, incredulous and puzzled and pitying in turn.

_No right to judge me…_

Paws thrumming viciously on the treetop paths, heedless of caution.

_No right to pity me…_

Kaylen's words in her mind: _A lot of time to waste on hate, Riala._

_It's MY time! MY life! She has… no… RIGHT!_

Teeth bared, ears pinned, tail lashing, paws pounding. Wind and branches and leaves whipping past, barely noticed by narrowed gold-brown eyes.

_She can't understand! How can she judge what she hasn't been through?!_

Stop.

Riala ran out of trees, halted across the path from Redwall Abbey. She drew in a deep breath, hissed it out past still clenched teeth, forced herself to calm down. The squirrel dropped from the elm and walked up to the gates, lingering tension clenching one paw open and closed.

"Sister Bria needs the Badger Mother, a cart, and a few strongbeasts to help bring a wounded badger to Redwall," she shouted to the walltop. "And hurry!"

Hurry they did. Minutes later Riala was racing the wind through the treetops once more, followed by a badger-pulled cart filled by two brawny otters.

"Ahoy th' cart!"

The Badger Mother of Redwall dug in her heels, screeching to a stop next to the otter and squirrel in the road. "You want something?" the badger said, a growl rumbling in her words.

Kaylen nodded to the cart. "Just a ride t'Bria'n Onestrype, Beya."

"Get in."

The otter grinned, thanked the badger, and climbed into the cart, extending a paw to Malaya. The squirrelmaid looked about reluctantly, hopefully, then grasped the proffered paw with a disappointed sigh.

The cart tore off with a clatter and a pounding of heavy badger paws. Riala followed in the trees, perverse pride keeping her hidden.

Onestrype was deathly still, only the slight rise and fall of his chest showing that the badger remained alive. The hiss of a sharp intake of breath announced Kaylen's dismay at the sight. "What d'you want us t'do, sister?" she asked, leaping down from the cart.

Bria poured the last of the water from the canteen onto her bloodstained paws before nodding to Onestrype. "Beya, take th' stripedog's left. Skipper, ye an' t'other riverdog…" She looked at a lithe male otter wearing a Wanderer rank insigna on his jerkin and twin scimitars at his waist.

"Drizzt," the otter supplied.

"Aye. Ye two take t'other side. An' you, Kaylen or whoever ye be… lift th' badger's legs, will ye?"

The badger and the three otters lifted Onestrype with care and some difficulty. Bria hovered about them, rattling off constant warnings and admonitions. "Be careful now… don't ye jolt him. Watch that tree root… good, now into the cart--_gently,_ ye bumblin' riverdogs! Easy, easy… there!"

The badger Beya lifted the cart shafts slowly and waited for Bria to climb in next to Onestrype, breaking out her healer's bag once more. Riala made little sound as she slipped to the ground, padded up behind Kaylen and Malaya while the cart rattled off with Skipper of Otters and Drizzt at point.

Kaylen's senses were better trained than Malaya's. She turned, blinked in mild surprise at the sight of the squirrel. "Yore back."

"Who's back?" Malaya craned her neck around and yelped when she saw Riala. The rest of her body followed her head in a clumsy turn, a grin enveloping her angular features. "Riala! Where'd ya go? Ya left so sudden-like an' looked so angry…"

Riala's indignation at Kaylen's earlier words melted with the squirrelmaid's obvious delight at her return. "I just went to get the badger mother," she said, avoiding Kaylen's sharp gaze. "Sorry if I worried you."

Malaya bounced on her paws, grinning ear to ear. "S'okay! Yer back now. Take me with ya next time? I c'n keep up!"

"I'll try."

"Aye, well, this be all well an' good, but…" Kaylen nodded to the wolverine's body. "What d'we do with that?"

Riala spared the corpse barely a glance, expression turning impassive. "Let it rot," she said, voice harsh and cold.

"But…" Malaya's ears flickered, uncertain. "Don't she even deserve t'be buried?"

"Not a wolverine."

Disbelief and shock flashed across the squirrelmaid's face to be replaced by a stubborn set to her chin. "Should bury 'er."

Riala's jaw took on the same hard line, eyes glinting unyielding steel. "'Tis too good for the scum."

"Hold 'ard, mates!" Kaylen stepped between the two squirrels, blocking the daggersharp glares. "Compromise, will ye? No rottin', no buryin'—how's burnin'?"

Riala nodded slowly. "Fine."

"Good 'nuff," Malaya said.

The otter grinned. "Well, that's good then! Ye two go talk'n make up. I'll take care of this, mates."

Malaya bounded for a nearby tree, calling over her shoulder, "Goin' t'the drey, Ri! Catch me if ya can!"

Riala hung back, a rare concern flickering within. She looked close at Kaylen before speaking. "I'm sorry about Onestrype… I know you were closer to him than I."

_"Were?_" A shadow crossed the usually grinning face, and Kaylen's paw tightened on the dry firewood already collected for the makeshift pyre. "Yore talkin' 'bout him like 'e's already dead. 'E's not."

She winced at the harshness in the otter's tone, backed off a step. "I'm sorry," she said again, helpless, sensing a chasm yawning between them, breaking apart what was once friendship.

No answer. Kaylen turned away, jerked up another piece of wood with sharp, tense movements.

Silent stillness, words tumbling incoherent about her mind, lodging in her throat, unable to escape into the air. Riala's mouth thinned into a tight line, the mood shattered. Pride denied reconciliation and she whirled away reaching a tree in three quick strides, vanished among the green in an eyeblink.

Riala stopped by Wanderers headquarters on her way back to the drey and came out with two cloth-wrapped bundles. The unwieldy objects slowed her down somewhat, resulting in startouched night by the time she reached the thorn-fenced drey.

She dropped into the drey on silent paws, glancing about for Malaya. The young squirrel huddled on the cot, tail held in one paw as if for comfort, a troubled cast to her face. Riala watched the sleeping squirrelmaid for several long moments, an unreadable muddle of thought and emotion flicking windquick across her scarred features. Finally she leaned the bundles against the wall, changed into garments free of blood, and started to climb into her own rumpled bed.

A soft whimper caused her to turn. Malaya was curled into a tight ball, every muscle tensed, quivering against the assault of nightmares. Riala hesitated, unsure what to do, and then a soft cry against some dreamed or remembered pain escaped the youngling's mouth. It broke the older squirrel's reservations.

"Malaya… Aya, hush… shh…" One calloused paw touched the squirrelmaid's shoulder, shook her gently. "It's over, it's all right, just a dream…"

Maybe Malaya heard her or maybe the touch stirred her close enough to consciousness to break free of the nightmare. She stilled, sighed out a long breath, and relaxed.

Riala waited until the squirrelmaid's breathing grew long and deep, the sign she'd sunk into dreamless sleep. Only then did she climb into her own blanket nest on the floor and let a light sleep overtake her mind.

The creak of wood beneath light paws drew Riala to consciousness at once. Her senses reached out, funneled information into her waking mind. _Sunlight, birds—morning. No scent but squirrel—Malaya. Awake? _Slits of gold-brown peered out from behind cracked lids to see shadows playing on the walls and a thin bush-tailed form tip-pawing oto the bundles in the corners of the drey. Riala's mouth quirked up in the barest hint of a smile at the sight.

A gasp and the gleam of dawnlight on bared steel announced Malaya's discovery of one bundle's contents. Riala chuckled and sat up, chin on knees, watching with an amused glint to her gaze. "Nosy, are we?"

The squirrelmaid yelped and nearly dropped the sword. Guilt flooded her face as she replaced the weapon, turned to Riala with downcast eyes. "I, um… well…"

"You were curious. Nothing wrong with that." The older squirrel crossed the room in two short strides, unwrapped the sword completely. "It's a rapier," she said, balancing it on both paws, displaying the thin length and intricate basket hilt. "About the right length for you… not excellent quality but it'll do. I can teach you to wield it properly and defend yourself well enough, but the blade's not my weapon—you'll have to learn finesse from other Wanderers."

Malaya's eyes grew big as dinner plates. "It's fer _me?" _she squeaked.

"Aye. Here, put it on." Riala sheathed the rapier and handed the scabbard it hung on to the squirrelmaid. "You ought to have a long range weapon as well, though. My roce's my preferred weapon but my dagger's saved my life more than once." She unwrapped the second bundle: a short bow and a quiverful of green fletched arrows.

It didn't seem possible that Malaya's eyes could get any wider but somehow they did, shining with delight as she stared from sword to bow to quiver and back again. "I… it's…" A grin split her face from ear to tufted ear. "Thanks!"

A wry smile twisted its way across Riala's features. "You won't be thanking me tonight. We're going to _work._"

"I don't mind!"

"Good. Because the first lesson is that you put that sword on wrong."

Riala waited while Malaya sheepishly switched the scabbard around, then handed her a stick carved to the same dimensions of the rapier. She took up her own practice sword and nodded to the younger squirrel. "Let's go."


	8. Dark Deeds

**Vengeance Quest**

**Chapter 8: Dark Deeds**

They trained until the squirrelmaid could barely hold the practice sword, and then they trained some more. Malaya proved a quick learner, uncomplaining and diligent through the ensuing days of constant activity. Riala received no mission assignments save patrols, so she was able to devote her time to teaching Malaya swordplay, archery, and woodlore. The poor youngling fell into bed each night half dead from exhaustion but there was a benefit to the hard work: there were no more nightmares.

Onestrype hung stubbornly to life. He remained in a perpetual slumber, soup poured down his throat to keep him from starvation. It became a constant question among the concerned Wanderers: "Any news of Onestrype?"

Perhaps that was why Riala pushed Malaya so hard, why she wrapped herself up in the role of trainer, avoiding Redwall at all costs, only checking in at Wanderer headquarters when she had to. The physical rigmarole kept her mind off of wounded Wanderers and broken friendships and wolverines.

Then the relative quiet ended with a single patrol.

"Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Riala's voice was deliberately, obnoxiously cheerful, one footpaw prodding Malaya to reluctant consciousness. The squirrelmaid groaned, pulled the blankets over her head only to have them yanked off.

"Patrol time, youngling. Up!"

Malaya groaned again and slumped back to a sitting position. "Yer a torturer, Ri."

"Torturer? Me?" Riala was all offended innocence. "I let you sleep _late,_ slugabed. It's already dawn."

The squirrelmaid favored Riala with a grumpy glare. "Yer ridiculous when ya try t'be innocent."

"Sorry." Riala's tone was anything but apologetic. "Come, get ready and let's go."

Still grumbling, Malaya struggled into a tunic, buckled on her rapier, and slung her bow and quiver across her back. "Where're we goin'?"

"Usual patrol route," Riala said, climbing out of the drey to the outer limbs of the widespread oak. Malaya caught up with a burst of speed, gradually waking to her normal energetic self.

"What 'bout breakfast?"

"What about it?"

The squirrelmaid blinked. "Ain't we gonna have it?"

"I already did. You slept in." Riala grinned at the string of protests that met that announcement. "You know some woodlore. Shouldn't be too hard to find your own."

That drew a second protest and a groan. _"Another_ test?" Riala didn't answer, leaving Malaya with no option but to sigh and start looking for food among the late spring boughs.

The morning wore to noon with nothing out of the ordinary. The two squirrels dropped by a few small woodland dwellings, asked if everything was normal, nothing unusual or potentially dangerous.

"Oh, no, everything is perfectly fine," the father of a rabbit family said, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief.

"Yes dear, but do remember that stoat creature," his wife reminded him.

Riala's ears pricked with interest. "A stoat?"

"Oh yes, nasty creatures, those. A female, I believe, but 'tis hard to tell with i vermin /i , you know. T'was a bit that way." He pointed down an overgrown path.

"Was she alone?" Riala asked, gaze intent. "Armed? Anything unusual beyond that she was a stoat?"

The rabbit's long ears flicked back as he thought on it. "Hm… had a sword like your young friend there, she did." He nodded to Malaya's rapier. "Alone, yes, I believe so. And, ah… hm… yes, odd clothing too. Very dark."

"Can you describe it?"

"Yes, of course." He sniffed, dabbed at his nose once more. "Rather dirty thing, t'was probably black once. The oddest part was the design on the front, some sort of whitish symbol. It appeared to be claws, though they were rather long… Oh dear, is something the matter?"

He stared in concern at Riala's suddenly wide eyes, clenched paws, and laid-back ears. "_Longclaws…"_

Malaya, silent till now, jerked at the name, mouth agape. The rabbit was oblivious. "Yes, that _is_ what I said—long claws. Wait—where are you—"

"Thank you you were very helpful farewell!" Malaya gasped out as Riala raced up a nearby tree without a word. The youngling charged up after the older squirrel, leaving the two rabbits blinking in confusion.

"Rude," the mother rabbit said.

"Quite," the father agreed. "The silly beasts didn't even stay for tea."

"Riala, _wait up!"_

The older squirrel slowed in her breakneck dash through the treetops, glaring at Malaya impatiently. "Keep it down," she growled.

Malaya didn't even flinch. "Yer gonna do somethin' crazy, aintcha?"

"I'm going to get some answers." Riala turned and took off again. Malaya followed with an exasperated sigh.

"What are ya gonna do t'do that, huh?" she asked.

Riala's face went cold and still and dark. "I'll know when I find this stoat."

A shiver rippled through the squirrelmaid's thin frame. "Ri, promise me ya won't do anything crazy. Like… killin' 'er afore ya know if she's good're bad."

Silence, winter frigid. "I can't promise anything."

A crackle in the brush below cut off any further argument. Riala stopped, stared intently at the ground, gold-brown gaze seeking the sound's source. A light pawstep and a stoat stepped into view. She wore a black tunic over ginger fur, both stained brown with travel dust. A finely crafted rapier hung at her side and she moved with the fluid ease of a lifelong bladebeast, but exhaustion showed in hunched shoulders and drooping ears.

"Malaya."

Riala's voice was barely audible even as close as she was to the squirrelmaid. Malaya leaned in even nearer, nightoak eyes questioning and concerned.

"Leave. Go back to the drey."

"I wanna help—"

"I have to do this alone."

The squirrel's steel gaze and cold tone brooked no room for argument. Malaya sighed, nodded reluctant assent. "Be careful…" And she disappeared among the leaves.

Riala waited, working her roce free of her belt, seemingly relaxed now that it was time to act. Emotion vanished, leaving only a chill sense of purpose to govern motion. The stoat moved a little closer, every muscle tense, perhaps feeling Riala's sharp gaze on her. Closer still, and Riala dropped from the tree like a hawk diving for prey, roce swinging down for the stoat's head.

Some sixth sense or perhaps the rustle of foliage as Riala brushed by it alerted the stoat. She fell before the squirrel could touch her, rolled to the side as the stick smashed into her shoulder, came up with rapier gleaming in her other paw. Riala didn't waste time cursing the miss, let out a length of cord instead, whirling her roce until it whistled in the breezy spring air.

The stoat crouched, rapier held in an expert paw, one arm hanging limp at her side. "I don't mean any—"

Riala wasn't interested in conversation. She let the stick fly, watched the force of it wrap the cord around the stoat's legs and then she yanked the stoat's footpaws out from under her, all in the blink of a gold-brown eye. The stoat hissed in pain as she fell on her injured shoulder, hacked at the taut cord with her rapier but Riala was on her, dagger flashing in the greengold forest light. The blade bit into the stoat's sword paw, forcing her to drop the blade and then one scarred red-brown paw pressed down on the stoat's white throat.

"Now…" The squirrel's eyes glinted cold vicious red, teeth baring in a feral grin. "Let's get some answers, aye?"

"What… do you mean?"

"You're one of Longclaws' horde," Riala said with a growling edge to her words.

The stoat flinched. "I… _was…_"

A sneer slashed its way across the squirrel's scarred face and her paw pressed a little harder on the stoat's throat. "Don't try lying to save your mangy hide, scum! Where's the Longclaws' horde?"

"I… don't know…" she gasped past the pain and the crushing paw.

Riala's dagger paw jerked up, light glinted on steel and the stoat's ear lay on the ground. Shock stilled pain for one moment then faltered, elicting a scream cut off sharply by a paw's renewed pressure. The squirrel held her paw on the stoat's throat for a few seconds longer, a silent warning, then let off the pressure. She waited for the stoat to regain her breath in sobbing gasps.

"I warned ye not tae lie, stoat," she hissed. "_Where is the wolverine?"_

"Southlands… when I left—last season. I swear… I don't know!" Panic crept into the stoat's voice and the fear in her wild gaze could not be feigned.

Riala nodded slightly. "Where were they headed?"

"Some castle… otters and squirrels… Southblade, something… like that."

"How many in the horde?"

The stoat shrugged weakly, bit her lip hard as her injured shoulder shifted. "Not… too many. Five score… maybe."

"Captains?"

"Five…"

She was fading, pain dragging her to unconsciousness. Riala kicked the stoat's side, kicked again when she didn't respond. The stoat hissed out a tortured breath, teeth gritted. "…awake…"

"Good. I need names. Abilities."

The stoat inhaled shakily. "Veneno. Fox. Poisoner. Uses it on everything. Scythe in battle. Thinks he's… death." Even through her pain the disgust showed clear in narrowed eyes.

"The others?"

"Astarte Darkmoon." Something akin to hatred twisted the name into filth. "Stoat… She uses… saber and dagger. Power-hungry."

She paused to grab a firmer grip on consciousness, drew in another deep breath. "Deathcry… ferret archer… sadist. Stormsong… weasel… bard… healer… scout leader."

The stoat fell silent, eyelids drooping, ragged breath rattling deeper. Riala cuffed her to consciousness again. "You said five captains, stoat. I count four. Who's the fifth?"

"Can't…" It was as whimper, a whisper, pain and fear and a hopeless defiance all in the one word.

The dagger dropped point-first into the stoat's uninjured shoulder. Her scream was choked off by an iron paw about her muzzle, the dagger yanked out. "I… _can't_…" she sobbed, voice barely audible. "…promised…"

"Since when do vermin keep oaths?" Riala snarled. "What's going to happen if you tell? If this captain threatened torture or death, it's no worse than what _I_ can do to you. Tell me, scum!"

Tears beaded at the corners of squeezed-shut eyes. "…no…"

Riala's face grew northland cold, devoid of emotion. She let the dagger drop again, into the leg this time. Another scream, again cut short, and again the stoat refused to speak. The second ear fell to the ground. A finger followed, then another…

_"…no more…"_

Riala stopped at the gasping sob, waited for her answer. "You'll tell me?"

Pain, more than just physical, contorted the ravaged face. "…yes…" Self-loathing coated the reluctant agreement and the one unharmed paw curled into a fist. "…Kiern… stoat… blade… Longclaws' guard… favored captain… elite…"

She was fading once more, eyes glazing over, teeth bared against pain and death. Riala touched the dagger to the stoat's throat, ready to release her from the agony, but a whisper of sound from the bloodstained mouth gave her pause.

"Kiern… I'm so… sorry…"

A sighing breath rattling past a blood-choked throat, and then silence. Riala looked at the stoat's corpse coldly, took her dagger from the unmarred throat, plunged it into loam to clean it.

"Hellsteeth…"

A stunned shocked whisper whipped the squirrel's head around to see Shadow de Vulpes, one paw on a tree trunk as if for support, emerald gaze wide and staring.

Riala's eyes went colder still, hardening against the loathing she knew the fox would feel for her. "Did Malaya send you?" she asked, quiet and chill.

The blank stare shifted with difficulty to the squirrel, remained there for an eternal silent moment. "You did…this?"

"Aye." Simple, unflinching.

A shiver rippled across the fox's lean form, revulsion evident in the tension of every muscle. "You know this means you're no longer a Wanderer."

"I know." Regret flickered, cracking through the ice, then froze to stillness. "I'm leaving Mossflower tonight. Resuming my hunt for the wolverine Nightdeath."

Shadow nodded, turned back to the mutilated corpse, swallowed hard. "Better burn this before Malaya comes…"

"Aye." Riala bent to gather wood for a pyre. After one long moment, Shadow leaned down to help.

It was dusk by the time the body burned to ash. Shadow had long since departed, likely to report to Brook. Riala remained, standing vigil over the pyre, feeling some sort of obligation to the hordebeast she'd killed. _Strange, that. She was one of the Longclaws's… no reason I should do this…_ but she couldn't forget the stoat's final words, the sadness in her voice. _"Kiern… I'm so… sorry…"_

…Strange.

Riala kicked dirt over the ashes and brushed leaves and twigs over the dirt until it was impossible to tell a fire had ever been there. She picked up the stoat's rapier, tested the balance, nodded in satisfaction. A good weapon; she'd drop it off in the Wanderers' armory when she gave Brook her resignation.

She touched the wooden insignia at her throat, unclipped it reluctantly. _I'm going to miss this. _Mossflower. Redwall. Her drey. The woodlanders. The Wanderers.

She shook her head, a sudden anger flaring within. _No time for sentiment, Riala! No _room_ for sentiment. You can never come back, not now. Get over it—you have a wolverine to hunt._

The squirrel climbed to the forest canopy, slowly heading for Wanderers' headquarters. It didn't take long to reach the widespread oak, and Riala dropped into the disguised treehouse without a moment's hesitation.

Brook was waiting inside.

The squirrel nodded slowly at the sight of the gimlet gaze and the expressionless face, resigned to the inevitable. _She knows._

"Report." The mouse's voice cracked like a whip, sharp and demanding.

Another slight nod. _So this is how it is to be…_ "I found a stoat in the livery of the wolverine Nightdeath Longclaws while on patrol," she said, keeping her voice even and neutral. "I sent the squirrelmaid Malaya away from the scene, then engaged the stoat in combat through ambush. I disarmed her and interrogated her through use of force. After yielding what information I needed about the wolverine's whereabouts and horde, the stoat died from amassed injured. The vixen Shadow de Vulpes came upon me then and aided in the disposal of the body."

"I see." Brook's words were calm and flat, but her eyes were winter cold. "You attacked an unknown outsider without investigating purpose, gaining permission, or announcing your presence. You tortured the stoat to death. You burned the body."

Riala didn't flinch. "Aye, I did." She set her rank insignia on the desk, wood clicking on wood. "I told you I'd leave the Wanderers when I found news of the Longclaws' whereabouts. I have, so I'm resigning."

The quiet calm of her voice sparked fury in the Wanderers' leader. Brook stood, paws slamming down hard on the oaken table. "Hellsgates, Riala, you _tortured_ somebeast to _death!_ Don't you feel _anything?"_

"…No."

"You…" The mouse glared, one paw clenching and unclenching convulsively. "What manner of beast _are_ you?"

Riala gazed down at the latticed floor, the patterns drawing her eyes along one gray strand in a network of browns, transfixed. "I'm not sure I know…"

Brook hissed out a curse. "Are you a vermin that you don't even care what you do to get what you want?"

_"No!"_ That provoked a response at last, anger and denial and even a touch, oddly enough, of fear. Riala met Brook's gaze for the first time since she'd entered the room. "I don't enslave. I don't kill younglings. I don't interfere in duels or have half a score archers kill my enemy if he begins to get the better of me!"

"No, you don't do that." Brook's voice was all ice now, former fire turned to winter hail. "You only attack creatures unawares. You only torture them to death. You only kill without thought for if your victim might not be evil."

The squirrel turned away, fighting for calm. "You stop to see things from an enemy's view, you can't kill him. You hesitate, you die. I _can't _think of what vermin feel. I can't afford to."

"At least you could have honor!"

"_Honor!"_ Her calm shattered irretrievably, each shard drawing fury to the surface. She whirled, ears pinned back, paws clenched into tight fists. "Honor is a _weakness_ when fighting against the honorless! It's useless. Deadly. It killed my father, and I'm not making the same mistake!"

Disgust filled the mouse's dark eyes. "Then you're no better than the vermin you hate."

Riala's paw clenched tight on the hilt of her dagger, eyes narrowing to furious slits. Brook waited, silent, seemingly calm but with every muscle tensed for action, and her sword close at paw. A long moment passed, tension stretching into eternity, and then the squirrel forced her paw to let go of the weapon. She turned to go, paused a step from the exit. Words spun in her mind—apologies, thank yous, retorts, farewells. Yet she clamped her mouth on speech, settling for silence, and stepped from the Wanderers headquarters into the embrace of night.

Riala paused on the south path, gazing over her shoulder at the nightshadowed forest and the sunrise red form of Redwall behind her. _What am I waiting for?_ The thought was a whisper in her mind as she stared at the abbey, at Mossflower, fixing it in her memory. _I can't go back. Didn't say goodbye to Malaya but that might be for the best; she probably thinks I'm no better than a wolverine too._ Bitterness shadowed the scarred face, yet she could not turn away. _Nothing left to do here; Malaya will take care of the drey, I don't need anything from it. I'm finally doing what I wanted to do, continuing my vengeance quest. I should be glad._

…then why was she still standing as somebeast adder-tranced? Why did she feel like she was leaving a lifelong home?

_Kaylen… I'm sorry. Thank you for saving me._

_Onestrype… get well. Awake. Fight again._

_Even Shadow… thank you for teaching me. And understanding._

Malaya… 

Riala closed her eyes as pain ate at her heart. It was best to leave this way. Goodbyes were too hard, and they didn't accomplish much anyway. This was best. Truly best…

_…stay free. I'll miss you…_

Riala drew in a deep breath and turned away at last. One scarred footpaw moved forward, then the other… step by step she forced herself down the path, to the south, to the Longclaws, until a shout stopped her in her tracks.

"Ri!" Gold-brown eyes widened, shock freezing every limb to motionlessness. "Rialaaaaa! Wait!" "…Malaya?" Riala turned to see the squirrelmaid racing her way, fumbling with an armload of baggage. Malaya stopped just in front of her friend, buckled on her rapier, slung bow and quiver and a bulging haversack over her shoulder. She grinned up at the older squirrel. "Thought ya was leavin' without me, huh?" 

"I…" Riala stared, mouth open like a gasping fish. "You can't come!" she protested at last.

"Why not?"

The squirrel's jaw clenched and she averted her gaze. "You don't want to come with me."

Malaya's head tilted questioningly. "Yes I do…"

"No, you don't." Riala spat the words out, voice growing chill. "I tortured that stoat. To death."

"…oh." A long silence from the squirrelmaid. Riala studied a blade of grass on the road as if it were the most fascinating object in existence, forcing herself not to look at Malaya. Finally, in a quiet voice, "…I'm coming with you anyway."

A curse ripped from the squirrel's throat. She whirled on the youngling, voice rising to a shout. "Maybe you didn't hear me, Malaya. _I tortured somebeast to death!_ For information only!"

"I heard ya." Malaya met Riala's glare without flinching. "An' I think it's wrong. But I understand. If ya hadn't killed th' slavers, I woulda done th' same t'them. But if I had th' same chance now…" She shook her head. "I'd kill 'em quick so's they couldn't enslave others, but it wouldn't be f'r revenge. 'Cos I don't hate 'em anymore, yannow? I've let go. You haven't yet, that's all. So ya do things outta hate that ya wouldn't otherwise. But I think ya know it's wrong."

Riala looked away, unable to meet that calm, earnest gaze. She'd been expecting revulsion, loathing, anger, even hate… anything but understanding. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"So I c'n come?"

"No." The squirrel's eyes grew hard, fixed Malaya with a silent command to obey. "It's too dangerous. You might be killed or captured."

The squirrelmaid chuckled. "So might you."

"That's different."

"Nope!" Malaya grinned. "Not different at all. Asides, ya can't stop me. Ya can't order me t'stay 'cos yer no Wanderer anymore. Ya can't force me t'stay 'cos I'll follow even if ya knock me out're tie me up, an' it'll be safer f'r me if I'm not travelin' alone, right?"

Riala's resolve held up barely a moment under the youngling's good logic and stubbornness. She sighed, glare softening into an almost-smile. "Very well, Aya. I suppose I ought to welcome company…"

"Good!" Malaya skipped ahead a few paces, tailbrush waving high in the air. "Let's go huntin'!"


	9. In the Horde

Vengeance Quest 

Chapter 9: In the Horde 

_The squirrel has finally stopped following us._

Nightdeath Longclaws is dismissive of this news, unconcerned as always about the lone squirrel that has been a thorn in the side of the Nighthunt for so long. He says she is but one beast, that the stragglers she picks off were weak and inattentive anyway and that nobeast should mourn the loss. Kill her on sight, we're ordered, but we're not to go out of our way to hunt the goldentailed treejumper.

I respect the Longclaws. He's the best leader I've served under. Even so, I think his judgment is too hasty or too blind when it comes to Goldentail… after all, she saw her father slain at his paws, and if her harrying of our forces is any indication of her hate, then she is dangerous. Creatures that live for revenge don't give up and don't care for their own lives.

She will return. My hope is that she returns alone.

Kiern set his quill pen back in its holder, reading over the elegant lettering with pinched brows. A nod, a quick shake of drying powder over the wet ink, and he was done. He leaned back in his chair to stretch and survey the inside of the tent.

It was a bit crowded for a soldier in a horde on the march, even somewhat crowded for a captain like Kiern. One trunk's metal lid yawned open to reveal a stack of meticulously rolled scrolls. Another trunk held inks and blank scrolls; a third contained a few rare, valued books and a host of maps. A narrow cot lay shadowed against the tent wall, blankets tucked flawlessly neat over the canvas. A plank of wood set upon two trunks served as a desk, uncluttered and organized.

"Captain?"

A timid voice at the tent flap drew the stoat's gaze to the entrance. He sighed and straightened, brushing a fleck of dust from his immaculate black uniform. "Come in, Skyfire."

The flap swung open and a second stoat ducked into the tent. A stray thread of her tunic caught on the flap, pulling the stoat to a halt. She fumbled with the opening, trying to separate cloth from canvas. Kiern watched her clumsy struggle for a moment before rising, biting back another sigh, and pulling a knife from one polished black boot. One slice parted the thread in two.

"Trouble, Skyfire?"

The stoat fem looked to the ground, shamefaced. "Srory…" She fingered the loose thread nervously, tugging at it without realizing what she was doing.

Kiern pulled her paw from the offending thread, cut the strand off close to the black tunic, then slipped the knife back into his boot. "You'll need to mend that."

"Aye, I suppose." The ginger red paw strayed towards the thread again. Skyfire bit her lip at Kiern's pointed glance and pulled her paw to the hilt of her finely crafted rapier instead, fiddling with the burnished silver.

Kiern waited while the stoat fidgeted, stared about the impeccably clean tent, fidgeted some more. "Did you need something, subcaptain?" he asked, mild impatience touching his otherwise even tone.

"Oh!" Skyfire started and tugged at the message canister on her belt. She handed it to Kiern with haste, ducking her head in apology. "From the Longclaws."

"Really… I wonder what he wants." The stoat upended the canister, caught the message that slid out. He scanned it quickly, expression growing grim. "Wonderful," he muttered, then looked up at his waiting subcaptain. "Tell the Nightclaws to form up for escort duty. Make sure they are presentable, and you need to get presentable too." The light brown gaze raked across Skyfire's uniform and the dust from blade practice that obscured the white claw insignia on the front of the black tunic.

Shame caused the stoat fem's ears to droop and she nodded. "Yessir."

"Dismissed."

Kiern turned back to his desk and read the missive again, more carefully this time. "Just wonderful…"

_Captain Kiern of the Nightclaws:_

I have sent messages to the other captains to assemble the Nighthunt for executions. Some of the offenders being punished were popular with members of the horde. I shall need my personal guard about me for this event—form up your Nightclaws in formal uniform and wait for me outside my tent.

-Nightdeath Longclaws

Who is it this time, I wonder?

The last execution had been only a week ago. Disgruntled hordebeasts, tired of a meager season with too little plunder, started resentful muttering rippling through the Nighthunt. Nightdeath dealt with it expertly, mercilessly, executing the two ringleaders and immediately leading the horde south to the warm rich lands there. The prospect of plunder and ease silenced the dissention… so what could the reason for execution be now?

Kiern shook his head, mentally calling his meandering thoughts to order. He tossed the missive in the fire and brushed imaginary ash from his uniform. _Skyfire should have the Nightclaws ready by now…_

He gave his uniform one last look over, rubbed his paws free of ink with a rag, and stepped into the sunlight.

There was his command, standing in crisp lines of four before his tent. They came to attention as he passed, critical eye inspecting every uniform, every bit of fur. _Good… they are learning. _Each hordebeast was clean, their uniforms unwrinkled, any visible metal polished to a high gleam. Of all the Nighthunt, the Nightclaws had to look as good as they fought. Their black cloaks, fluid in the brisk wind, marked them as the Longclaws' personal guard, elite fighters and every one of them loyal to the wolverine and their captain.

Kiern stopped before the newest member of the Nightclaws, a wiry ferret with a set of wicked throwing knives slung across his chest. "You. Swiftblade, is it?" A nod from the recruit. "Your knife harness—it is not part of the uniform."

"Aye sir, that I ken." Like many of the creatures in the wolverine's horde, the ferret spoke with a northland accent. "Ah dinnae be used tae drawin' mae knives from mae belt, an' Ah sez tae maeself, 'Ye canna be as good a guard if ye must think tae draw steel,' an' so Ah wore th' harness, saer."

The stoat nodded. This Swiftblade had a good head on his shoulders—after a bit more time in the Nightclaws there was a good chance he'd make subcaptain. "Report to Subcaptain Skyfire after the executions for a more…decorous harness." He eyed the battered leather askance—it did not go well with the black and white uniform.

"Aye, saer."

The stoat captain turned, striding to the front of the unit. "There will be more executions today," he said, voice carrying to every ear without rising to a shout. "We will be guarding the Longclaws closely. It will be the Nighthunt that you must beware of today, not the woodlanders." His sharp gaze raked across the ranks. "Move out."

They reached the Longclaws' tent, marked as different from the other tents by a black banner and nothing else. It was the same as any other tent in the horde's campground, no bigger or better. This refusal to allow himself anything better than his horde earned the wolverine respect and loyalty, a far stronger tie than fear.

At the call of "halt!" the Longclaws stepped from his tent to survey his gathered guard. He was, if anything, more immaculate than Kiern, his thick black fur marred only by the occasional battlescar, wickedly long claws polished to a high gleam. He commanded respect merely by _being, _muscular dark form towering head and soldiers above most of the hordebeasts, red-black gaze piercing and riveting.

Nightdeath Longclaws was a born leader. The Nightclaws would willingly give their lies for him. The Nighthunt, on the other claw, took a little more convincing… _They_ needed plunder to buy their tenuous loyalty. And where loyalty was uncertain, force and fear were necessary to cement it.

"Fall in," Kiern barked in the drawn out commands that sounded like gibberish to the untrained ear. "Escort formation!"

The NIghtclaws formed up behind and around the wolverine, a living cloak with Kiern at the Longclaws' right shoulder and Skyfire to the left. They followed grimfaced as their chief strode to the open area that served as temporary parade grounds.

Kiern's gaze flicked to the cart already set up as a stand for the executions. Confusion stirred when he saw that nobeast was chained to its sides, ready for the sword. _Odd… what is the chief up to? _

Movement form the Longclaws caught his wandering eye and he stopped at the raised paw. "All halt!" he sang out, focusing on his leader.

Silence fell over the assembly, conversation and the rustle of idle motion fading to nothing under the piercing stare of the wolverine. "You've been called here today because of traitors in your midst," Nightdeath said, voice chill and flat. "Hordebeasts plotting to kill me and take my command. Hordebeasts in high positions, no less…"

_Oh…_ Kiern nodded, slight and knowing. No real surprise, this. Nightdeath periodically eliminated one or two captains or subcaptains, often those who were getting too ambitious. It kept his captains in line and the turnover meant that nobeast had time to grow secure enough to plot assassination. Kiern alone had held his position as captaincy for several seasons; he was the only one the Longclaws trusted, if any. He wasn't at all expendable, and he intended to keep it that way.

The nervous rustling of motion at the Longclaws' words subsided under the wolverine's ebony glare and he continued. "I do not tolerate dissention! You swore to serve me when you joined the Nighthunt—every one of you! Any who wishes to take back his oath may do so if they do so before me—and then they must leave the horde with no more than they joined with. Any who breaks his oath, and plots treachery, however…" That cold gaze seemed to pierce every stare it met, past the body to the innermost dark secrets of the soul. "…_they_ can only leave the horde through _hellgates. _"

The wolverine's unnerving stare traveled across the four divisions, settled on a fox with the white bars of a captain. "Captain Longbrush of the Nightblood."

The wiry tod stepped forward, features inscrutable though his flat amber eyes held the merest hint of fear. "Aye sir?"

"What are the properties of belladona?"

The score of hordebeasts behind Longbrush, his entire command and all trained assassins, stiffened at the name of the plant. The fox licked his lips nervously, eyes darting side to side as if for a way out. "A poison," he said at last, one paw wandering to his stomach and the hint of nausea crossing his angular features, "sore painful an' deadly."

"And how does it kill, captain?" The Longclaws's voice was dangerously soft.

By now the assassins' captain was shaking uncontrollably as he spoke. "First... dizziness. Dry mouth... heat... nausea -_ hellsteeth, ye didna!" _

"Continue, captain." Commanding. Cold.

Longbrush gripped his stomach with both hands, his face twisted with the effort to hold back nausea. "...vomiting next. Blurred sight..." and his eyes became unfocused as he recited the litany of symptoms, panic creeping into his tone, "...faster heartbeat, agitation, raving... then weakness, sleepiness, shortness of breath... _death... _" He doubled over, convulsing in the throes of retching.

"Does it have a cure, my friend?" The words were an almost verbal caress, the stroke of coils before the adder's bite.

Past chattering teeth and heaving stomach the fox managed to choke out a weak "n-nay..."

White fangs showed in a parody of a grin. "Not a very good thing to give to somebeast, is it, captain? A pity I learned of your plot before you carried it out. And a pity you were so eager for breakfast this morning - you consumed the very poison you planned for me. How... ironic."

"Tekhyl! Tekhyl of the Nightfangs!" The fox's eyes rolled wildly and he pointed a quivering claw at a ferret in captain's uniform. "He told me to do it! Said ye was a fool, a deceiver and would ne'er let any of us live more'n a season're two.... _hellsteeth, Longclaws, ye poisoner! _Someday ye'll trip up! Somebeast'll kill ye! Ye'll die, an' ye'll rot wi'out bein' buried an' everybeast'll be celebratin'!"

His ranting deteriorated into nonsense, more and more ridiculous accusations alternating with desperate pleading until it all dwindled into silence, the shaking and retching slowed to trembling and he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. Sinking lower and lower to the earth, curling into a miserable ball, eyes blinking shut and open, open and shut until they closed, drifting to unconsciousness to lifelessness.

Nightdeath turned away from the body, ebon eyes turned hard as steel and just as cold. His gaze traveled across the ranks, settled on the ferret that Longbrush had accused.

"Captain Tekhyl of the Nightfangs."

The name was a death knell, tolling a second time in the same day, and the ferret's face was grim as he stepped forward. He and his command were a rough, seedy lot, each covered in scars, many missing ears or eyes or claws. The Nightfangs were the toughest of the Nighthunt, the first to attack in battle and the last to leave.

Nightdeath's eyes narrowed. "You encouraged Longbrush. You plotted with him to kill me. It was you who gave the assassin the idea of poisoning me in the first place. Perhaps I ought to have slipped you poison as well."

Anger flared in the sable brown ferret's eyes. "Mebbe I'd get te yew afore it kicked in' an' I'd kill ye, mebbe that why you ain't poisoned me, yew bloody mangeclaws! Too scared te fight, _poisoner_?"

The taunts drew a spark of fury to the wolverine's cold gaze, but outwardly he remained unmoved. "Do you wish to try your blade on mine, captain?"

"If yer fool enough, aye!"

Nightdeath nodded, an almost imperceptible movement. "To the death, then."

A savage grin split the ferret's scarred face. "Wouldn't 'ave it any other way, tarface!" He stepped away from the ranks of hordebeasts and drew his cutlass, the polished curving blade gleaming silver in the southland sun. "Been waitin' a long time fer this…"

The wolverine joined him in the open ground between his guard and the Nighthunt but he didn't yet unsheathe the longsword slung across his back. Tekhyl sneered and pointed to the longsword with his cutlass. "Draw it, chief."

A sardonic smile ghosted across the Longclaws' face. "I do not need it to defeat the likes of you."

"Yew mock me?" The ferret snarled and dropped to a fighting crouch. "Yew'll be too easy te kill!"

The wolverine let the tips of his fangs show in mocking challenge. "Kill me then, ferret—if you can."

"He's mad!"

Kiern turned at the shocked whisper, raising an eyebrow at Skyfire's wide eyes. "Mad, subcaptain?"

She gulped at the mild reproof in his tone but explained nonetheless. "Tekhyl's not captain for nothing, sir. He's an expert fighter. I've watched him. He keeps in practice but I've never seen the chief fight except in battle…"

"Is Tekhyl a better fighter than I?"

Surprise flickered across the stoat fem's face, settling into thoughtfulness. "No, he's not as good as you…"

"I have never been able to defeat the Longclaws in a duel," he said, "and I do not believe he has ever used all his skill in our sparring sessions."

Skyfire's eyes widened even further and she turned back to the two combatants. "This should be good then…"

The ferret slashed down with his cutlass for the wolverine's shoulder. There was a flicker of movement, impossibly fast and casually executed, and Tekhyl stumbled forward as his blade cut only air. Nightdeath had stepped just far enough to the side for the cutlass to pass by unrewarded by blood.

"Oh my," the Longclaws said with mock startlement and false concern, "did you trip? You really must watch out for those pesky rocks…"

A ripple of half-stifled laughter from the ranks provoked a snarl from the ferret captain. He slashed to the side, angling up for the wolverine's ribs at the last moment. Long white claws flicked out, deflected the curved blade aside.

"Ah, sorry, captain… it is not quite time for my manicure yet."

Rage choked words in Tekhyl's throat. He charged once more, feinted, feinted again, then kicked out with his footpaw when the wolverine parried and dodged both feints. He growled satisfaction as it connected with Nightdeath's gut. Wind forced from his lungs, the wolverine was distracted for a split second and that was all that the ferret needed. His blade whistled in, Nightdeath's claws came up to parry, and a slight miscalculation brought forth a line of blood along the wolverine's ribs.

First blood.

Pain mingled with fury hissed from the Longclaws' throat. His claws lashed out, drew blood from Tekhyl's shoulder. The ferret retaliated but Nightdeath was ready. He dodged and slashed an identical wound on the captain's other shoulder, smiling infuriatingly though his eyes held all the rage of a firestorm. For every failed attack on Tekhyl's part, the wolverine gave the ferret another deep claw wound.

The captain was flagging visibly after only a short period of time, face contorted in pain, slashing weakly at the wolverine. Nightdeath stepped forward and grasped Tekhyl's sword paw, turned it till the cutlass lay against the ferret's throat.

"Don't embarrass yourself any further," the wolverine said with a wicked gleam of fangs. "Just lean forward and you end this yourself."

The hate in Tekhyl's blood-soaked face was chilling to see. "I'll wait for yew in hellgates!" he spat, and jerked forward against the blade, jaws snapping shut a hair's breadth from Nightdeath's throat.

The wolverine stepped back, disgust clear on his dark features. He let go of his dead captain and the corpse fell to earth like a broken marionette. Turning his back on the bloody mess, he pointed a red-stained claw at a ferret the color of old blood.

"Subcaptain Deathcry of the Nightarms."

The ferret's eyes widened in stunned shock and she froze for a long moment before stepping forward. "Sssir?" she said, wariness sounding strange in her hissing voice.

"Where does your loyalty lie?"

Another surprised silence. "With ye, sssir…"

Nightdeath nodded slightly. "You are now the captain of the Nightarms. Kill your previous captain in any way you wish."

"Sssir?" Deathcry stared at him, disbelieving.

"You heard me, captain. Do it."

A gleam came into the flat ebon eyes as the reality of the situation dawned on the lean ferret. She turned to the now-demoted captain, a seedy-looking weasel with dawning fear written in every tensed muscle. He backed away before Deathcry's wicked grin, staring wildly about.

"Chief, nay, don't do this, ye know what she'll do tae me…!"

"You are a spy, Chalgore," the Longclaws said coldly, "and whatever Captain Deathcry does to you is only what you deserve."

He turned away as the new captain caught Chalgore and bound his paws tight behind his back. "Subcaptain Astarte Darkmoon of the Nightfangs, you will replace Tekhyl as captain. Subcaptain Veneno of the Nightblood, you will replace Longbrush as captain. Be sure that you do not make the same mistakes they did."

The stoat fem and the tod fox nodded but could scarcely repress triumphant grins. Nightdeath's gaze raked across the ranks. "Astarte, have some of your command clean up this mess. Stormsong, to my tent. Dismissed."

He turned and headed for his tent as the Nightclaws fell in around him.

Kiern halted the Nightclaws just outside the Longclaws' tent, waited while Nightdeath and the captain of the Nighteyes, Stormsong, entered. The stoat turned to Skyfire. "Choose twobeasts to guard the tent," he said, "and dismiss the rest."

"But—"

He held up a paw to forestall the barrage of questions clear in her eyes. "I'll tell you what I can after I talk with the chief."

The stoat fem started to say something, bit back the words, nodded. "Yessir."

With a nod in return, Kiern turned away and slipped into the Longclaws' tent.

The wolverine was sitting on his cot, paw pressed tight to his side, glaring at the patient Stormsong. "Just put a bandage on it tae stop th' bleedin'," he growled, dropping the cultured accentless diction he used around the horde.

Despite the fact that Nightdeath could and would kill him in one pawstroke, the cloud-gray weasel stood firm. "I sighted thine wound when it happened, sir," he said in his soft, musical voice. "'Tis deeper than thee pretends, an' if it be not cleansed, stitched, an' bound, thee shalt not live out the season."

Nightdeath snarled his opinion of the healer-captain's words in none-too-gentle terms but complied, shrugging off his cloak with a wince. He glanced over to the entrance as he did so, and at the silent flame-red figure waiting there. "Aye, an' ye can come in, cap'n. I s'pose ye 'ave yer share o' questions."

Kiern nodded acknowledgement of Stormsong and saluted to the Longclaws, eliciting another growl. "Naught o' that, stoat. We be alone save f'r th' healer-bard here. Hurry it up, weasel…"

"Thee must needs remove thy jerkin, sir," Stormsong said mildly.

A silent show of fangs and the wolverine complied, stripping off the garment to reveal a mess of scars and a deep gash along his rib cage. Stormsong tsked, dipping clothes in a bowl of heated water and pressing them to the wound.

Nightdeath glared at Kiern. "Don't look so disapprovin', stoat," he said, voice harsh. "Couldna show weakness afore th' horde, ye ken that."

The stoat's face was a study in impassivity. "Yes, I know. I do not like it, but I understand."

"Good." He hissed as Stormsong spread a yellowish paste on the wound and transferred his glare to the healer. "Ach, bard! Be ye tryin' tae heal me or murder me?"

"This shalt prevent infection," the weasel said, still calm. "May I continue or must needs thee growl a mite longer?"

The Longclaws' teeth bared in a feral grin. "Careful, cap'n… ye walk a deadly path."

Stormsong didn't reply to that caution and Nightdeath turned back to Kiern, one eyebrow raised in query. "Well, scribe? What be ye wantin' tae ask?"

"Why kill three captains in a day?" Blunt, direct—Nightdeath did not like dancing about a subject like duelists testing each other for weaknesses.

"Why indeed…" One flat ebony eye fixed Kiern with a scrutinizing stare. "Treachery on th' part o' Longbrush an' Tekhyl, like I said."

"And Chalgore?"

A shrug, followed by a wince as the movement shifted the gash in his side. "Things were comin' tae a head between Chalgore an' Deathcry. If I'd nae stepped in we'd lose one're t'other anyhow—thought I'd choose which tae die, ye ken?"

Kiern grimaced. "But _Deathcry? _" Revulsion was clear in his expression and tone. "She's…"

"…a sadist, an' useful." Nightdeath shook his head slowly. "Ye need tae learn th' use o' creatures, e'en when they be repulsive. Her love o' pain controls her, an' I c'n control her through it. She's a good interrogator. An' I just earned another notch o' loyalty by givin' her Chalgore."

The distaste didn't leave the stoat's eyes. "Chalgore was a good captain. He was no sadist, and yet he was still loyal to you…"

"Ye think tae high o' Chalgore, cap'n," Nightdeath said with a dry chuckle. "I took Deathcry from a hordechief's harem, didna that ye ken? An' Chalgore abused his position, commanded her tae do more'n fight. She hates him fer it, an' that's why she be so eager to kill him slow."

The disgust Kiern felt must have shown because Nightdeath laughed. "Ye be tae soft, Kiern. Tae honorable. These things happen in a horde; naught tae do fer it. Next question?"

The stoat scowled, brief and dissatisfied, but the Longclaws had closed the subject firmly. "Your choice of replacements," he said. "A fox who thinks he's death and a…" He stopped, groping for a word to describe Astarte Darkmoon.

"whore?" Another dry laugh. "Dinnae look so shocked. 'Tis what she be. She also be a faine leader, good fighter, an'…" He grinned, fangs bared in mischief, "…popular with her troops."

Kiern snorted, letting out the expected snicker. "Good reasoning, but what of Veneno?"

"Aye, th' poisoner. He's mad. He'll drive his command tae th' brink o' mutiny within th' season."

"Ah…" Puzzlement overtook the stoat's expression. "Would not that be reason enough to keep him from captaincy?"

"Nay, nay." The wolverine grinned at his captain's confusion. "When I replace him his command will be grateful an' for more loyal tae _me_. 'Tis most important tae have assassins like th' Nightblood _with_ ye. Tae dangerous tae have them against ye!"

"Thine herbs, chief. They shalt dull the pain of the needle."

Nightdeath glared down at the slight gray weasel. "Th' cream's numbin' enow, bard," he growled. "I'll not be drinkin' who-ken-what herbs just tae lighten some pain!"

Stormsong bowed his head in assent and drew a long needle from the fire. "Thee must needs remain still, chief."

"Er… sir?" Kiern glanced from the needle to the tent flap, unease mingling poorly with his breakfast.

"Aye, aye, dismissed."

The stoat saluted and hurried out of the tent as fast as dignity would allow, Nightdeath's dry laugh following him out.

"Kiern, there you are!"

The stoat froze at the sing-song call, the sultry voice. "Should not you be with your command, Darkmoon?"

"They're celebratin' the leadership change—any cause for a party, you know. Nobeast can really relax 'round The Captain, so I thought I'd go lookin' fer somethin'…_else_ to do."

Kiern sighed, exasperation heavy in the exhalation, and turned. The ginger-red stoat fem smiled enticingly, one slim paw on a curvaceous hip. She was attractive and knew it, sought constantly to use it to gain power and rank. She'd even tailored her uniform to fit snugly about her lithe form. Yet she wore the saber at her side with practiced ease, and an occasional scar showed her experience in battle. A dangerous enemy, Astarte, but also an uneasy ally.

"What do you want?" Kiern asked, voice chill and dispassionate.

The hint of a pout formed on the fem's unmarred face. "You're always so cold, captain."

"At least I am no adder." He turned to go, and most creatures would have accepted the blatant dismissal.

Not Astarte. She strode smoothly to match his pace, watching him from the corners of half-closed eyes. "Rude, aren't you? Thought you were a gentlebeast."

The muscles in Kiern's jaw twitched. "You have reached the highest rank you can, captain. There is no reason to bother me any longer."

"Oh, but there is…" She sidled up to him, far closer than Kiern found comfortable. "Job security. You have it, as much as anybeast could—the chief _trusts_ you. He doesn't trust anyone else."

A growl rumbled from the stoat's throat. "What makes you think I can do anything about it?"

She blinked. "You could put in a good word fer me."

"And the Longclaws would know you had some form of influence with me, and he would lose trust in me, perhaps replace me. No, I would not do that."

"Ah…" The hint of knowing triumph touched Astarte's face in the form of a small smile. "So the loyal captain of the guard has self-interest after all." She chuckled, low and rich. "I'll ask you again when I find an option advantageous to us both, hm? 'Till then, Kiern."

The stoat's lip curled in distaste as Astarte sauntered off. "I will never understand the Longclaws' decisions…"

Kiern sank into his chair with a long, tension-dispelling sigh, pressing the sides of his aching head with his paws. The orderliness of his tent was a welcome respite from the chaos outside, and he could feel the stress melting from his bones.

Somebeast rapped upon the tentpole. The stoat stifled a groan and straightened in his seat, adjusted his uniform, smoothed his fur. _Cannot show weakness before the horde. _Nightdeath's maxim, drilled into Kiern from the moment the wolverine had taken him in as a youngling. It was true, he knew it was true, but sometimes he wished he cold just tell the world to leave him _alone_ rather than being the ever-ready captain of the guard…

"Enter," he said, command and strength evident in his voice—no hint of the exhaustion he felt.

Skyfire ducked into the tent, eyeing the flap warily, then moving to stand before the makeshift desk that dominated the spotless tent. "Sir—you said you'd explain…"

"Yes." He nodded to another chair. "Sit."

The stoat fem obeyed, watching him curiously. "So. Why did the chief do… what he did today?"

With an inward sigh, Kiern leaned forward over the desk and explained most of what he knew. He left out the parts he knew would weaken her loyalty to the Longclaws—_always the conscientious captain, I am… I not only guard his person, I guard his reputation also. _

His explanations dwindled to silence and he sat back in his chair, watching Skyfire take the information in. She frowned, mulling it all over. "So… Deathcry's loyal to the chief because he took her from a hordechief's harem. Why do you follow him, then?"

A flicker of surprise blinked across Kiern's face, then settled into the far-off stare of memory's grasp. "I was the son of a scribe before woodlanders overran the fortress my parents worked at, killed the king and scattered the rest of us. We—my sister and I, our parents had been separated from us in the battle—we were found by slavers. We were fairly young… no use as allies but quite useful as slaves."

The stoat stopped, shook his head and came forcibly back to the present, gaze clearing to sharp obsidian. "Nightdeath killed the slavers and took me in, taught me how to fight, eventually made me the captain of the Nightclaws."

He looked at last to the stoat fem and could too easily make out the pity in her dark eyes. His jaw tightened and he turned away, staring hard at the lines of elegant script on an open scroll until they blurred into incomprehensity.

"What about your sister?" Soft, compassionate, and it was that very compassion that curled Kiern's paw into a tight fist, that pressed sharp claws into callused pad.

"She was sold before Nightdeath freed me," he said, harsher than he'd intended, not looking up from the table.

Cloth rustled, Skyfire shifting position behind him, and her voice was a shocked and pitying whisper when she spoke at last. "Oh, Kiern…"

A bite of pain reached his mind from his paw. He lifted it before him and stared in unthinking fascination at the drops of blood forming rubies on his clawtips, staining the punctured pad. _Do not need anybeast's pity…_

Skyfire seemed ignorant of the tension raging within her captain. She took a step forward, curiosity battling uncertainty. "Do you… do you know what happened to her?"

A droplet of blood fell from one curving claw, traced a line of dark red down his arm. "Why would I care?" and his voice was cold, hard. "She was only my sister."

Breath hissed sharply behind him—Skyfire, shocked at her captain's indifference. "Sir…?"

"I have answered enough of your questions, subcaptain." Still as chill as the northland snows. "You are dismissed."

She hesitated. His voice rang out again, sharp and commanding. "_Dismissed_, subcaptain!"

"Yessir!"

Quick pawsteps, the rustle of a tent flap. He stood silent for a long moment, paws once more tensed into fists. Then he turned, collapsed into his chair with a groan and let his head fall into finally opened paws. Ensnared in the clutches of memory, he scarcely noticed and scarcely cared as his own blood dripped down to ruin the painstakingly crafted parchment.


	10. Battle

**Vengeance Quest**

Chapter 10: Battle 

Night turned to day returned to night, moonless and clear. The stars peered down at the only flame in the warm night, the fire lit tent in the Nighthunt encampment.

The captains of the horde gathered within, informal and seemingly relaxed as they waited their chief's arrival. Astarte lounged across the floor mat, watching the others with hooded eyes, all sultry invitation. The black dogfox Veneno stood cloaked in shadow, whetstone rasping across his keen scytheblade again and again, honing it to a deadly edge. Deathcry hunched apart from the others, suspicion lurking in the red-tinged gaze as she chewed absently on a thin bone. Stormsong spared them all barely a glance before returning to his lute, adjusting a string here and there.

Kiern remained standing, situated near the entrance, motionless and immaculate. I hate these councils, he thought, observing wary calculation in every eye, sensing the tension like bared steel waiting for blood. None trusting anybeast else, all seeking their own advancement.

_Disgusting. _

"So… Kiern." Astarte's smooth voice caressed the name between the repetitive rasping of Veneno's whetstone. "Any idea why th' Longclaws called this little circus?"

The stoat glanced to Stormsong. "I am not at liberty to tell you; the chief will explain all when he arrives. I _can_ tell you that it has to do with a scout's discovery."

"Really…" Astarte turned her attention to the cloud-gray weasel, who shot an irritated look at Kiern.

"I can tell thee nothing," the healer-bard said, strumming a gentle chord on the lute. He tilted his head, ears sifting the sounds, and tightened a gleaming string. "Surely thou hath the patience to wait for the chief's arrival. It cannot be long."

The Nightfangs' captain rose to her footpaws in a single fluid motion and sidled over to Stormsong. "Come, come, captain… it's really not_ fair _that you an' Kiern know but th' rest of us don't. You can tell me, can't you?" Her paw brushed moth-soft across the weasel's shoulders and Stormsong stiffened beneath the touch, every muscle tensing. "Remove thy paw, Darkmoon," and his usually soft voice was as taut as his lithe form.

She blinked, hesitated. "Is… something wrong, bard?"

"Remove. Thy. Paw. I hath no interest in _thine_ kind. Thou be repulsive, flaunting thyself to any an' all."

A dark anger flashed in the stoat fem's eyes and she pulled away, turned from liquid and languorous to sharp fury in an instant. "You captains're all alike, aren't you? You an' Kiern. Too_ good _fer pleasure, so proud of yer abstinence, so _disdainful_ of somebeast who uses what she has t'get what she wants." She glared at both stoat and weasel, dark eyes bright with indignation, slender paws curled into fists, and then the anger seemed to drain away to leave her with only fragility and a still-alluring dejection. She turned the force of that wounded helplessness on the assassin-captain Veneno, slinking up to him and laying a ginger-red paw on his black fur. "D'you hate me too, Captain Veneno?" she asked, somehow managing to mix a purr with a pout.

The fox blinked, eerie amber gaze flicking from Astarte to Stormsong to Kiern and back again. "I… nay," he said at last, a slow smile touching his dark face. "Death hates nobeast."

A low laugh, throaty and rich. "Then maybe you'll show me what Death can do, after this meeting?"

Kiern's lip curled in disgust and he turned away, wishing the Longclaws would hurry. _I will not be able to take more of this without slicing out that whore's tongue…_  
"Will ye jussst shut yer flamin' jawsss, Darkmoon?"

Astarte smirked, leaning against Veneno and glancing at the blood-red ferret in the shadows from the corner of her eye. "Why, Deathcry, what's the matter?"

The ferret pulled the bone out of her mouth and pointed it at the stoat fem. "Ye be disgussstin'. There be other waysss tae gain th' power ye love ssso much."

"Really." Astarte's gase sharpened, gained a vicious light. "Yer one t'talk, aren't you? Only reason yer a captain now's because ol' Chalgore liked yer…skills…"

Deathcry snarled and bit hard into the bone. It splintered into two jagged halves that she held up, death dancing in her eyes, fangs bared in a feral parody of a smile. "_Thisss_ be what'sss left o'_ dear _Chalgore," she hissed. "He ssscreamed right tae th' moment he died—an' it took an age fer th' ssscum tae die. _That_ be hisss reward for making me sssubcaptain!"

"I see." A smirk touched Astarte's face. "Yer a spider then. Have th' male before you devour him…"

The ferret moved with lightning speed, both sharp ends of bone pressed at Astarte's pale throat like twin fangs. "Ye call me a ssspider, whore? E'er felt a spider'sss _bite_?"

_"Enough." _

Deathcry locked glares with Astarte a moment longer before breaking away and biting down on a piece of bone once more. She didn't look up as Nightdeath followed his chill voice into the tent, ebon stare touching every captain within.

"Astarte. Play your games _outside_ the tent, on your _own_ time," the wolverine said, frigid as the northland snow.

Rebellion flickered, a slight twisting of the mouth, then vanished and Astarte stepped away from the silent Veneno, returned to the other end of the tent. "Yes sir."

The Longclaws waited as his captains turned their full attention on him, then nodded slightly. "One of Stormsong's scouts has reported a small armed group of woodlanders half a day's march to the south, directly in our path," he began in his typical blunt manner. "We could go around them but some of the horde are getting restless, and so a fight would likely improve morale. Captain Darkmoon, your command is the most impatient for battle, correct?"

"Yes sir. They edge towards rebellion if they go too long without a battle."

"The Nightfangs will be the first into battle, then." The wolverine's dark gaze flicked to Deathcry. "What of the Nightarms?"

She shrugged. "They be missssile beasssts. Lessss warhungry than many. Ussse usss if needed but it isss not neccessssary for morale."

A nod, and his attention turned to Veneno. "Your assassins?"

"Aye. The Nightblood are hungry for the killing, and I am starved for death." The fox ran his tongue along the sharpened scytheblade, grinned in malicious anticipation. "As is my blade..."

Kiern's nose wrinkled in mild disgust but he wiped the look clean in an instant, returned to impassivity as Nightdeath turned the topic to the tactics in the upcoming skirmish. All five captains leaned in, turned serious and thoughtful in the flurry of discussion and orders and strategy as the night wore on to dawn.

"'Round 'bout sunset, Ashwood."

The graying squirrel squinted into the glare of the day's last light, then turned his attention to the burly salt-pepper hedgehog standing nearby. "Set up camp now or try for the plains?"

His companion hmphed at the thought. "Safer te make camp. We don't be the only creatures in these parts. Scouts reported seein' some vermin."

"I suppose." The squirrel shrugged and shouldered his longbow. "Well, I'd best tell the others we're stopping here…"

By the time the gray of dusk had given way to a cloud-strewn night, a full twoscore of bedrolls were laid out by merrily blazing campfires, and the first few sentries stood about the camp of woodlanders with a sleepy sort of vigilance.

None of the sentries managed to sight the inky forms within the almost-black of treeshadow. And amidst the rustle of the autumn breeze through dying lives, nobeast noticed a puff of air from the forest's edge.

"Ow!"

The mousemaid Springfern clamped a paw to her neck, wincing as she let out the involuntary yelp. A passing hare sentry paused at the sound, long ears tilting her way. "Somethin' the mattah, Fern-me-spring?"

Springfern's paw remained pressed tight to the side of her neck. "Nay, jus' a beesting, I…" Abruptly she stiffened and, with excruciating slowness, toppled to the ground.

"I say!" the hare exclaimed, bounding to her side with two long strides. "That doesn't look quite like a bally sting, m'gel!" He crouched by the fallen mouse, paw moving hers aside until he could see the brown feather protruding from Fernspring's fur, and his eyes widened. "That's…_urk!" _

The hare arched backwards as a dagger thudded into his back, and then black-clad figures swarmed past him into the sleeping camp with all the noise of an owl on the hunt.

Muddclaw was bored.

He crept up behind yet another half-awake sentry and ended the stupid squirrel's shift with a single knife thrust, then eyed the other shadowy figures on the outskirts of the camp with a sullen air. It was no fun sneaking around killing the unwary. Maybe it was for assassins like the Nightblood but _he _wore the red gloves of the Nightfangs. He wanted _battle! _

A notion tickled the fringes of his mind and he paused, nibbling on the bloodstained tip of his longknife. If somebeast screamed in pain because a hordebeast didn't manage to kill on the first strike... _that_ would probably wake up the camp, wouldn't it?

Muddclaw grinned and slunk his way to the next unsuspecting sentry. Oh, fun indeed. He hated hedgehogs.

An agonized cry split the forest air as Muddclaw's knife hit home, but the hedgehog sentry was no amateur at battle... He whirled with speed unexpected for such a large and wounded creature, and the surprised Muddclaw never had time to dodge the axe that split his skull in two.

Ashwood leapt out of his bedroll at the scream, impatiently kicked away entangling cloth, and strung his longbow as he peered into the darkness. The squirrel's sharp gaze picked out still, shadowed forms lying where sentries once stood, and his nose twitched at the scent of blood.

"We're under attack!"

A familiar voice bellowed the cry from Ashwood's shoulder, startlement whirling the squirrel about and into a fighting crouch before he could process the sight before him. It was the hedgehog, blood dripping from his axe, eyes alight with battlerage, tunic stained dark red.

"What--where--" The graying squirrel's sleepfogged mind tried to process all the sights and scents and sounds, sluggish from the abrupt awakening.

The hedgehog spun Ashwood around to face a scowling, black-garbed rat charging from the edge of the camp. "_That's_ what! Get 'im, treejumper!"

Instinct sent the squirrel's paw to his quiver without a moment of hesitation. Slide an arrow free, send it to the bowstring, draw and release. A thud, a scream, and the rat spun to the ground. A cold, still calm settled over the archer as he sought out attacker after attacker, shut out all but his target and the line of sight down each straight arrowshaft. Death's feathered heralds hissed through the midnight air from steady paws, and vermin began to fall.

"Heh…looks like we've been found out," Astarte said with a throaty chuckle, fondling the saber at her side. She glanced sidelong at the shadowy form of Veneno. "Ready for some fun, Death?"

The flat amber eyes flicked her way, then took in the sight of yelling woodlanders rallying to the defense. Fangs gleamed in a feral grin, chill as hellgates. "Aye…let us send these foolbeast to my kingdom." A laugh, empty and eerie amidst screams and warcries, and Veneno leapt into the midst of the woodlanders, scythe glittering in the light of the impassive moon, dark hood shading his face like the very spectre of death.

Astarte laughed then, too, saber sliding free of its sheath with the slithering scrape of Dark Forest's call. "This fox might be mad," she murmured to her bloodthirsty blade, "but he still speaks my tongue…"

"Niiiiightfaaaaangs!" she yelled, and twoscore gleaming pairs of eyes turned her way. "Attaaaaaaack!"

The answering roar from the camp's surroundings thundered dark across the clear sky, a vermin storm in the autumn night.

Kiern watched the battle from the cover of night-draped trees, black cloak wrapped close about his lithe form, hood lifted to shade his face. Near-invisible at his side was an ink-dark figure, imposingly tall next to the lighter built stoat.

"The battle goes well, captain."

The Nightclaws captain glanced over to the wolverine, then to the chaos of the erupting battle. "More of a massacre, chief. They are no match for the Nightblood and the Nightfangs."

A chuckle from the Longclaws. "Aye… that is true enough." His cloak rustled with the shifting of his powerful frame, and he pulled his hood back to reveal a mirthless smile, fangs gleaming pale in the night. "Go tell Darkmoon and Veneno to take a few woodlanders alive. Preferably fighters, if it is possible…and younglings as well."

Kiern's gaze sharpened, narrowed, probed Nightdeath's impassive face for a long moment. "May I ask why, sir?" he asked at last, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

A grin. "Oh no, it is not for slavery… merely the usual. Recruition."

"Oh yes…" A slow nod, but the stoat's eyes still held a troubled shadow. "Very well." He turned back to the battle, drew his saber, and crept down to the woodlander camp like a wildcat on the prowl.

It wasn't difficult to find the captain of the Nightblood. All Kiern had to do was follow the crazed, empty laughter that rasped above the clash of blades and screams of the dying. The stoat wove in and out of the individual skirmishes, stepping lightly over groaning wounded, dark gaze seeking the bloodied gleam of a scythe and the flash of amber in midnight fur.

Laughter echoed in his ear and he whirled, focused on the eerie spectre that was the fox. "Veneno!"

Though Kiern shouted the name above the din of battle, the assassin didn't seem to hear. Kiern grimaced and made his way to the insane fox, stepped inside the reach of the whirling scythe, blocked the haft with a gloved paw.

"Veneno!" he shouted, in the captain's face this time, and a hint of sanity returned to the flat amber gaze.

"What do you want?" Veneno snapped, jerking his scythe free.

Kiern's ears flattened momentarily against his head but he forced them to relax. "Orders from the Longclaws. Capture some fighters alive. And some younglings."

A snarl from the black fox. "Death is not…"

Irritation crackled within, fueled by the stoat's innate distaste for the insane captain. "Does Death command the Longclaws now?"

Veneno scowled, forced an angry salute, and turned back to the battle. "Tell the chief I'll do as he commands," the fox said, face twisting as he spat the words.

"See that you do."

Kiern stalked away, every muscle taut with vexation. Dealing with Veneno always tried his temper and his patience, but Astarte Darkmoon was worse…and now he had to give her the Longclaws' orders.

"The two captains I detest the most…" A snarl slashed across his face. "Playing the chief's messenger. Hellsteeth!"

Astarte took a bit longer to search out. Ducking arrows and fending off the rare unoccupied woodlander, Kiern picked his way through the camp-turned-battlefield, emotion closed off along with adrenaline to leave him dispassionate and detached. He rarely gave in to the chaotic tension of war, and now was no exception.

A rather young fox stood in an empty swath of bloodshed, gazing around with glazed brown eyes and dazed expression. A sword drooped to touch the earth from his paw, half-forgotten. Kiern nodded, slight and understanding, and paused next to the tod.

"New recruit?" he asked, voice quiet compared to the din of the surrounding massacre.

A nod from the fox, shaky and numb. "I…never fought, 'till now. Not in battle…not like…" A shudder coursed through the wiry frame and the tod leaned heavy on his sword as his legs threatened to give way.

Kiern followed the young soldier's gaze to the mutilated corpse of an older weasel, next to the equally bloodied body of a hedgehog with an axe in one paw. "I see…" He shook his head once, a bitter smile twisting across his face, and clapped the fox firmly on the shoulder. "It gets easier… you'll become used to it in time."

Another shudder. "…should I…? Get used to killing?"

The stoat let his paw drop from the young Nightfang's shoulder, drew in on himself in silence for a long moment. "If you think you shouldn't, then ask the Longclaws to let you leave." _A vermin horde is no place for weakness... _

A deep breath, cleansing his mind of doubts, and he scanned the camp for a glimpse of Astarte. "Do you know where your captain is?"

The tod nodded slightly. "Aye. Over that way, with Subcaptain Patcheye." He pointed between two trees with a red-gloved paw. "Last I saw, anyway…"

"Thank you."A nod, a sketchy salute, returned belatedly by the fox, and Kiern headed off to find the Nightfangs captain.

"Just kill it already." A bored voice from the shadows, and Kiern paused between the twin pines that the Nightfangs soldier had pointed out. Dark eyes scanned the clearing, settled on a gray weasel leaning against the side of a half-burned cottage.

A whimper squeezed into the night air past a fear-strangled throat, and Kiern stepped to the side for a better view. Astarte stood over a young mouse, sword tickling its throat. Not a length away, an older mouse stood trimbling, fright-wide gaze fixed to the dibbun.

"But Patcheye..." A chuckle, dark and deadly, from Astarte. "That wouldn't be nearly so fun, now would it?" The saber twitched, slicing a strip of fur from the mouselet's shoulder, wrenching forth a scream.

Kiern growled low in his throat, forced back the anger and disgust, took a step forward. "Leave it alone, Darkmoon," he said, voice chill as the fangs of winter.

She looked up, arched a brow at the sight of the Nightclaws captain. "What, now ya defend woodlanders, Kiern?" A laughing smirk. "I thought better of you than that."

His jaw clenched. The stoat fem could get under his skin like none other. "Chief's orders. You're to take as many younglings and soldiers alive as possible."

"And do what we want with the rest...?"

A grimace, quickly masked with impassivity. "I suppose."

Patcheye laughed, low and sinister, and stepped over to the mousemaid. "Well then, that be good tae hear..."

Kiern couldn't hold back a snarl then, fangs baring as the one-eyed weasel cast a smirk his way. The stoat fought his rebellious face into control with difficulty as he turned away. "You have your orders. I suggest you deliver them to your soldiers before they kill too many woodlanders. The Longclaws will be none too pleased if _that_ happens."

He could feel Astarte and Patcheye's glares boring holes in his back but he walked away without turning. Behind him, Astarte snapped an order to her subcaptain, and Kiern smiled thinly as he strode back to the Longclaws, messenger duty complete.

The battle ended quickly after that, and Nightdeath Longclaws prowled out of the shadows as dawn blushed pale across the horizon. Hordebeasts stiffened to attention as the wolverine passed by, then relaxed slightly once he was gone. Kiern followed close behind, gaze sharp for danger, a dark red shadow at his chief's shoulder.

A flash of ginger fur caught the stoat's eye and he motioned to Skyfire, sharp and commanding. She turned at the movement, hurried to the Longclaws' other shoulder, joined Kiern in guarding their chief as he made his way to a gray squirrel bound tight between two red-gloved Nightfangs.

"Is this their leader?" Nightdeath asked after a long moment.

Astarte stepped out from behind the squirrel and saluted briefly. "Aye, sir. Near as we can tell, anyhow."

The wolverine gave Astarte a cursory nod and let his gaze travel over the squirrel. Gray fur had been turned black-red with blood, and the woodlander's chest hstill heaved with exertion, but he stood tall between the two soldiers and his gaze was steady and defiant.

"What are you called, brushtail?"

The squirrel glared at the Longclaws, jaw muscles twitching as he remained silent. One of the soldiers that held him prisoner, a hulking red fox, slapped the squirrel hard across his face after seconds ticked by in silence.

"Th' chief axed you a question, scumtail. Ya'd best answer, or ya ain't goin' ter like whatcha gonna get," he said, a sneer worming its way across his face.

"Enough. I need this one healthy." Nightdeath motioned to Deathcry, who grinned from her hunched position in the treeshadows, and she strode away with eager purpose. The Longclaws turned back to the squirrel, a mirthless smile hovering about his dark face. "How high a cost are you willing to pay for honor, woodlander?"

The squirrel stiffened at the quiet question, eyes narrowing sharply. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Nightdeath turned the question over on his tongue, twisted it with amusement, edged it with midnight humor. "You are likely willing to give your own life for honor… but are you willing to let others die for your pride? A youngling, perhaps…?"

"Mista Ashwoooooood! Help meeeeeee!"

A dibbun's shrill wail split the air, announcing the entrance of a young mouse dragged in tail-first by Deathcry's iron paw. The ferret lifted the dibbun by its tail, one claw reaching out to draw a thin line of red across its chin. The youngling shrieked with fear and the sting of pain, eyes wide and staring.

A swear wrenched its way from the squirrel's chest and he jerked forward against his bonds, pulling his captors forward a step before they managed to recover and brace themselves against his struggles. He strained at the ropes, teeth bared in a savage snarl, ears lying flat against his skull. "You bloody monster!" he raged. "Thirce-cursed coward! You… unh!" The stream of abuse cut off abruptly with the squirrel's air as his fox captor slammed a gloved fist into his midsection.

"One dead is not too high a cost?" Nightdeath mused above the squirrel's choking coughs. "What about two? Or three, or more yet?" He glanced to Astarte, tilted his head in question. "How many did you capture, captain?"

She thought for a moment. "Six fighting beasts, three female noncombatants, five younglings."

A thin smile and the wolverine turned to the squirrel once more. "One youngling tortured for every moment of trouble I'm given by you or your warriors. Is that high enough a cost?"

The squirrel blanched at the thought, stood tall for a brief moment, and then all the fight whooshed from his body in a long breath, leaving him limp in his bonds. "Aye." The answer was nearly a whisper, defeated and hopeless.

"Good squirrel… I knew you'd see sense." A nod to Deathcry, etching a triumphiant grin across her face. She pulled forth a knife and pressed the tip to the dibbun's shoulder, then pushed. Agony arched the youngling's back and the mouselet howled in pain, a cry that rose to an endless scream when the ferret dragged the knife down through tender flesh.

" _No! _What are you _doing? STOP!" _The shocked shout erupted from the squirrel while the screams rent the air again and again.

Nightdeath arched an eyebrow at the horrified squirrel. "Only doing what I said I would. You gave me trouble earlier; now a youngling is paying your penalty."

"But I…" A fresh scream slashed through the dawn and the squirrel crumpled, defiance melting to pleas. "Stop… please stop it… I'll do whatever you ask of me. Just… stop hurting her…"

The Longclaws held up a commanding paw and Deathcry wrenched her dagger free with a disappointed scowl. The mouselet's cries died to whimpers that faded to silence as unconsciousness took her at last.

"Deathcry, have your archers build pens for the prisoners," Nightdeath said as both dibbun and squirrel were dragged away. "Veneno, put any healers under your command to work on the injured soldiers and prisoners. Kiern, Astarte, Stormsong—come with me." He turned on his heel with those last orders and strode back into the relative privacy of the trees, leaving his captains to their assignments.

"Stormsong, Kiern, you've both recruited soldiers before…" The Longclaws cast a cursory glance over the two captains before turning his attention to Astarte. "Do you know how it is done, captain?"

She shook her head. "Nay, sir. Tekhyl told me somethin' of it, but not more'n that ya use woodlanders."

"Very well then… Kiern, you will explain the recruiting process to Astarte." The ebon gaze flicked to Stormsong. "You will scout, as usual. Do you have a tally of our casualties yet?"

The gray weasel inclined his head as he received the order. "Aye, sir. Of the Nightfangs," and he nodded to Astarte, face carefully blank, "three be lost, an' three wounded so to be barred from battle for a fair pass of time. Of the Nightblood, one be wounded sorely."

One eyebrow quirked skywards at the numbers. "Three dead?" Nightdeath repeated, eyeing Astarte in question. "Surely your Nightfangs are better trained than that."

The stoat fem's jaw clenched, a minute twitch beneath ginger-red fur. "They're first t'fight an' last t'leave, sir," she said evenly. "An' so they get killed easier. Which means more new recruits more often an' less time t'train."

"I see." A smile, amusement or approval or both, ghosted across the wolverine's face. "Well done in the battle." He turned back to Kiern. "Assemble the recruition team and wait for word from Stormsong's scouts. You know what to do." A pause. "Ah yes… bring Astarte with you and explain everything to her. Dismissed."

The barest hint of a grimace twisted Kiern's expression as Nightdeath headed back to the camp and Stormsong melted into the undergrowth, leaving him alone with Astarte. She smiled, triumphant and sultry, and glided to his side.

"Well, captain," the stoat fem purred, "shall we be goin'?"

One paw clenched, a spasm of irritation, and Kiern glared at the Nightfangs captain. "Aye, we shall, but you'd best remember this: the chief has effectively put you under my command. You will behave as such." With that he spun about, setting his nose to the camp and striding away, leaving Astarte to swear indignation and follow with furious grace.

Kiern stepped into the orderly chaos of the Nightclaws' section of the camp, a circle of tents around a merrily blazing campfire. Some lounged about the flames, talking in idle voices, while others sharpened weapons and cleaned gear. Woodsmoke drifted about the entire area, scenting everything it touched.

Kiern stood on the outskirts of the camp for a few long moments before he was noticed. Glances shot his way and silence followed, except for one unaware rat, back facing his captain, jaws flapping in the autumn breeze.

"An' then me an' Crow sneaked up on th' sleepin' redglove, an'… whaddaya want?" The irritated question burst from his mouth, propelled by a companion's elbow in the rat's ribs. The rat glanced over his shoulder, yelped at the sight of Kiern, and almost fell into the campfire when he hastened to his footpaws. "Cap'n! Sorry sir, didn't notice ya…"

A slight smile played about Kiern's lips. "So I gathered. Sandblood, correct?" A nod from the rat. "New recruit, I believe… You will need to be more alert if you wish to remain a Nightclaw."

Sandblood ducked his head in shameful apology. "Sorry sir. I'll do better from now on."

"See that you do. At ease." As the rat reseated himself, Kiern let his gaze take in the entire Nightclaws camp. "As usual, the Nightfangs lost somebeasts in the battle." A dry chuckle rippled through the ranks at that—Kiern's Nightclaws held a good deal of scorn for the rival Nightfangs. "So we have to go recruiting to restock their ranks for them. Recruition team, form up by my tent once I'm finished. Meanwhile, I need twobeasts to help guard the prisoners in case the Nightarms manage to fail in their duty. Are there any volunteers?"

A grizzled ferret and a wiry fox stood up. "We'll go," the ferret said, leaning casually on his spear.

Kiern nodded. "Very well." A pause as fallen leaves crackled and Astarte stalkedi nto view, glaring at every Nightclaw in sight. A faint snicker waas the response and the stoat fem's claws flexed as if she wanted to rip out each black-garbed throat.

Kiern ignored her and gave his last orders instead. "Double guard on the chief for the next few days, starting now. The rest of you, go back to whatever you were doing."

There was silence for a moment as the stoat turned to Astarte and lifted one brow. "What took you so long, captain?" Behind him, the camp realized Kiern had finished and began to carry out their orders, some rising and jogging off to their assignment while the remainder returned to their chatter and chores.

"Was I expected to hurry, captain?" she asked in reply, sweet as poison.

A shrug from Kiern, who simply stepped out towards his tent and the waiting recruiting team. "Come along, Darkmoon."

Silence behind him. He smirked at the thought of her enraged expression – he was almost beginning to enjoy this. Then Astarte spoke, and uncertainty slithered through his mind.

"Yes sir!"

She sounded entirely _too_ cheerful.

The stoat fem sauntered up beside and a pace behind him, flashing him a grin with a glimmer of her usual sultry manner lurking silken behind the expression. "Care to explain this recruiting process to me, captain?"

She was up to something; he was as sure of that as he was of the brisk autumn wind tearing at his cloak. But Kiern turned her request over in his mind once, again, found nothing to suspect with it. No reason not to answer…

"Stormsong is looking for likely recruits," he said. "Unattached rats, foxes, stoats, and the like. The worse off the better. Once he finds some, he'll report back to me, and I and the recruition team will gather up a few of the captives that can fight. We'll give them weapons and turn them loose on the creatures we want to recruit."

"But… won't they attack _us_ too?"

Kiern shook his head. "We have their dibbuns and the woodlanders know what misbehavior might bring their young. They will do what we tell them to." A pause, straightening out his thoughts in their orderly precision once more. "Once the ones we're trying to recruit start having a hard time of it, we step in, kill the woodlanders, and we're owed a debt. Most beasts jump at the chance of good clothes, decent food, and steady pay."

A frown from Astarte. "And if they don't care about debts?"

Kiern smiled thinly and tossed a bag heavy with coins into the air, holding his paw out for it to smack into with a seductive jingle. "That's what the gold is for."

The two stoats had reached the waiting recruition team by then and they stopped, letting Kiern scrutinize the small group.

"Have any of Stormsong's scouts returned yet?"

Skyfire turned from her study of the woods and shook her head. "Not yet, captain… should be any moment now."

"Very well…at ease." This last was to the stiff-standing team of six, who relaxed and resumed chatting quietly, sharp eyes never wavering from the thick woods.

A low chuckle from Astarte, earning a quick glance from Kiern. "What is so amusing, Darkmoon?" he asked.

A slight smirk. "Just somethin' that occurred te me… How loyal _is_ yer subcaptain?"

"How loyal…" Kiern's eyes narrowed to wary slits. "What do you mean?"

She chuckled, easing into her typical sultry air. "Weeell…"

"Captain Kiern?"

A gray shadow in mottled greens and browns detached itself from the dark woods, startling the nearest Nightclaw soldier, who growled something about "Nighteye demons." Kiern nodded to the gray weasel as he concealed a smirk at his soldier's comment. "Captain Stormsong. You've found something?"

"Aye. A brood of foxes, three younger an' five elder. They be none too well fed, an' living in much squalor."

"Good…" Kiern glanced to the recruition team. "Did you hear that?"

The response came in sharp unison. "Aye, sir!"

A nod. "Stormsong, I'll need more information on these foxes. Would you come with me to retrieve the captives?"

Stormsong inclined his head in agreement. "Aye, Kiern."

"Astarte—remain here with the recruition team," Kiern ordered. "Skyfire should be able to answer any questions you might have."

A scowl flickered across the stoat fem's face, then shifted to a mocking smirk as she saluted. "As you command, captain."

Kiern shook his head and turned to follow Stormsong, black cloak whispering behind him in the crisp autumn breeze.

It was a short walk to the penned-up slaves. Kiern strode alongside Stormsong, dark gaze never still, trained senses alert for danger at all times—as a guard of the Longclaws must be. Stormsong moved with almost equal awareness, yet his paws made no more sound on the leaf strewn earth than the ghost his cloud-gray fur caused him to resemble. He glided more than walked, all wary stealth next to Kiern's coiled readiness.

Stormsong broke the silence first. "Didst thou volunteer for this task?"

Kiern tilted his head in the weasel's direction, ears swiveling towards him, but that was the only indication of his surprise at the question. He walked on for several moments, letting the rustle of autumn leaves and the distant murmur of horde voices fill the quiet. "It is my duty," he said at last.

"It doth not suit thee."

The stoat's eyes narrowed at the quiet words. "What do you mean?"

Stormsong's gaze drifted to the clear sky, shadows gathering in his face. "Thou art honorable," he said, choosing each word with deliberate care. "This task…it be trickery an' threats. Harming the young if the warriors doth not obey… attacking others only to 'save' them… this be not thine way."

"It is my duty," Kiern repeated, jaw clenching along with his fists.

The spy captain shook his head slowly, a sadness creeping into his pale gaze. "Thou thinkest harming children be honorable? Thou thinkest such treachery be right? Doth it sit well on thine heart, Kiern?"

Kiern's lips drew back in a snarl, and he hissed out fury to shield himself from the pain of the bard's words. "I serve the Longclaws! He freed me from slavery—trained me—made me his captain… _My life is his._" Intensity and conviction filled those last four words, and he grasped onto the thought of his duty like a bird might grasp a branch in the midst of a roaring storm.

"Your life…" Stormsong turned to regard Kiern, deep sadness still lingering in his eyes, as well as something—an intensity, an unattainable dream, mingling with other secrets of the soul that Kiern could not identify and was not sure he wanted to… "Thine life be his," the healer bard echoed. "And what of thine soul?"

Silence. Kiern's thoughts hung motionless, the very air stilled, time frozen in waiting of the answer.

"Enough!" A near shout erupted from the captain of the Longclaws' guard and the world caught its breath. "You tread dangerous ground, captain. You, too, serve the Longclaws. And _I_ protect him."

The thread of something akin to a threat snaked dark through Kiern's words. He held Stormsong's gaze a moment longer, anger and warning sparking from his russet fur, and then he resumed his purposeful stride to the captives' pen once more. After a moment, Stormsong followed, silence stretching tense between the two captains.

"Now." Kiern's turn to break the quiet this time. "Tell me more of these foxes…"

"…and there be little more to tell," Stormsong finished as the two captains reached the pen that held the woodlander captives.

Kiern turned the weasel's report over in his mind as he scrutinized the captives. Most sat against the hastily built walls, staring into nothingness, ears and tails drooped with hopeless dejection. They numbered six: the lithe squirrel archer who led the band of woodlanders; a burly hedgehog fem slumped in the corner, glaring at all who passed; a wiry young mouse, huddled listless against the wall, turning a stick over and over in his paws without seeming to realize what he was doing; a powerfully built river otter, dozing on his back in apparent carelessness; another squirrel, this one a young female with dark brown gaze wide and staring, mind locked in horrors of memory; and another male mouse, older than the previous, dark fur flecked with silver, eyes closed as he leaned against the wall, tensed muscles and clenched paws showing that he was far from asleep.

At the soft pad of paws on earth, the squirrel archer looked up with narrowed gaze. "More of you come to mock?" he said in a soft voice, the low volume not quite concealing depths of hate and resentment. Behind him the hedgehog fem rose with clenched fists, glaring murder at the two Nighthunt captains.

Kiern met the hate-filled looks with a calm lack of expression. "I am Captain Kiern of the Nightclaws; this is Captain Stormsong of the Nighteyes. We've come to take the six of you on a mission. This is the only task you will have with us."

"Ye _fool!_" It was the hedgehog, pushing past the squirrel, quivering with barely contained rage. "Ye think we'd be _believin'_ yew lyin' vermin scum?" She spat at Kiern's footpaws, teeth bared in a snarl. "All yew think about be control an' power! Ye're goin' to make us slaves, don't think we don't be knowin' that!"

Oddly enough, it was Stormsong who retorted, musical voice quiet in response to the hedgehog's tirade. "Thou knowest very little of us," he said, stepping forward to meet the woodlander face to face. "Never has the Nighthunt kept slaves of any sort. Captives, aye, but never for long, and they never be sold. An' the captain thou spake to be the most truthful being I hath met. Thou shalt _not_ accuse him of lying."

The hedgehog's only response was to sneer, quills standing on end. "Ye talk mighty nice, but ye take me fer a fool, an'…"

"Quilla." The squirrel placed a paw on her spiny shoulder, the command in his quiet tone silencing her at once. "Enough." She glared once more at the two captains and huffed off, nudging the sleeping woodlanders awake with bad grace. The woodland leader remained facing Kiern and Stormsong, arms loose at his side, waiting. "What is it you wish us to do?"

Kiern studied the squirrel for a long moment before nodding. _This is a creature I can respect…_ An odd notion, but the thought seemed perfectly sensible, whispering through his mind. "All you must do is fight a few foxes. We will lead you to them and you will attack them. You will make no mention of us to the foxes; you will simply attack."

A troubled shadow flickered across the squirrel's face, but at last he bowed his head in reluctant consent. "I have no choice, do I?" His mouth twisted into a parody of a smile, resigned and angry. "You have our younglings, after all…"

"Aye." Kiern's jaw clenched at the thought of such manipulation, stomach twisting slightly before he quelled it. _Duty first…_ "Gather your warriors. We will arm you for attack. Come."

The squirrel turned to the other five woodlanders. "We have our orders," he said dryly, fist clenching despite his apparent calm. "I'll explain as we go."

Kiern watched for a moment longer as the woodlanders formed up in a tight knot, and then whirled on his heel, disgusted at what he had to do.

It didn't take long to reach the recruition team. Kiern led the way, with Stormsong on careful watch behind the six woodlanders. Each woodlander's expression held a grim resignation, a knowledge of a lifetime's end. Some, like the young mouse and equally young squirrel fem, showed fear in darting gazes and flickering tails; others, like the river otter and the squirrel leader, moved with unwavering acceptance, jaws set and faces blank.

The recruition team straightened to attention at the sight of the two captains, then relaxed at the casual "at ease" from Kiern. "Give the captives their weapons," Kiern ordered, one paw resting on his saber. Soon the woodlanders were armed—the squirrel leader with his bow and arrows; the hedgehog with a massive club; the young mouse with a fine-edged paw-and-a-half sword; the river otter with twin polished scimitars; the young squirrelmaid with a blade-tipped staff in shaking paws; and the older mouse with a well-used saber. The captives stood in a wary circle, weapons at paw, eyeing their waiting captors with uneasy glances.

Kiern never removed his paw from the hilt of his saber as he stepped forward from the other soldiers. "You have your orders," he said, voice quiet but firm," and you know the consequences of any misbehavior. Disobey, and your younglings take the punishment. It will serve you no purpose to attack us. Do you understand?"

Jaws clenched along with paws, and muscles tensed, but the squirrel archer again took charge, nodding with sharp curtness. "Aye, we understand quite well, vermin," he growled. "Lead us to our targets."

"Very well." An answering inclination of the head from Kiern, and the stoat captain turned to Stormsong. "Lead on, captain."

Stormsong's pale gaze searched Kiern's for a long moment, but he turned away without a word, melting into the underbrush with the ease of lifelong practice. Another moment, and the recruition team and woodlander captives followed, soon swallowed up in the forest's depths.


	11. Recruitment

**Vengeance Quest**

**Chapter 11:**** Recruitment**

It was a lengthy hike over a nonexistent trail, snaking between tight-grown trees as the sun continued its unceasing journey to the distant horizon. Golden evening light struggled through the browning leaves of autumn, turning everything a musty amber that seemed out of place for the silent creep to battle and bloodshed.

"Hsst!"

Stormsong raised a silent paw and the small group halted at once, ears pricked, eyes staring into the shifting shadows of evening woodlands. The spy captain motioned and Kiern crept to his side, following the direction of the weasel's paw to a small clearing and the flashes of red and gray fur within.

Foxes.

Kiern studied the scene for a long moment. A dilapidated hut rested by a small, none-too-clear stream. Slow movement was evident through the cracks in the poorly built hut, and a young fox kit tumbled out of the building, followed by a scolding vixen. Two more kits played a game of tag at the opposite edge of the clearing, and three male foxes sat around a campfire, chatting idly, slanted amber gazes flicking occasionally to the fringe of their home.

_Where's the fifth adult…?_

A young vixen, scrawny but attractive enough in the manner of her species, stepped through the hut's doorway, a basket in paw. She brought it over to the tods, red brush swishing side to side as she revealed a few meager loaves of bread. The male foxes grumbled a bit over the pitiful meal but ate ravenously enough, and the vixen headed back to the hut.

Kiern took in the cutlass at the oldest fox's side, a grizzled gray male with scars webbing his tough but emaciated frame. The younger tod, barely an adult, speared one of the loaves on a longknife and ate it with relish, seeming content despite the way his ribs stuck out from beneath thin-stretched russet fur. Another dogfox, probably the younger's father, toyed with his bread with one paw as he set down the double-headed axe he'd been sharpening.

Not a good season for this brood…but they'd do well enough as soldiers. If they managed to survive…

The stoat captain nodded to the recruition team, motioning with his paw to the clearing. Each Nighthunt soldier sketched a brief salute in return, careful movement so as not to attract attention, and each took charge of a woodland captive, spreading out over the perimeter of the clearing. They waited…

Kiern placed a paw on the squirrel leader's back, and the archer stiffened at the touch as if it burned him. The Nightclaw captain lowered his mouth to the squirrel's ear, barely breathing his instructions. "Fire once…do not shoot to kill….that will be the signal for your warriors to attack. You will attack as well," he pressed a long dagger into the squirrel's paw, "but not with your bow… Wait…"

The foxes around the fire stood, stretched, and one barked a command to the kits still playing their game of tag. The two ran to their mother, who had caught the wayward youngling from the hut at last, and the kits and vixen started back to the hut.

Kiern's paw tightened on the squirrel's shoulder. "Wait…"

The foxes were a pace away from the hut's entrance.

_"Now!_"

_Ssthunk!_

A scream from the eldest dogfox as a brown-fletched arrow struck him in the shoulder. He whirled about, reaching for his cutlass with incredible speed as the other foxes dove for their weapons and the woodlanders charged with a furious yell.

The hedgehog barreled into the younger tod, but he dodged the blow of her club with expert agility, matching the superior might of the brawny hedgehog with the speed of his species. Yet he showed his inexperience despite the swiftness of his longknife—the hedgehog curled into a ball as she dove at him and his knife made little impact on her hard spikes. Instead her tackling roll knocked the tod to the ground, raised spikes pricking painfully but relatively harmlessly. Both combatants rose, and again they charged each other, both a bit more wary this time.

The young squirrelmaid faced off with the young vixen—the woodlander shaking but determined; the vixen glaring fury at the one who dared attack her home. The vixen was unarmed, with only the bread basket at paw, but she didn't appear to be ready to back down. A sharp movement from the squirrel and her glaive whistled through the air, blade aimed straight for the vixen's skull—but the young foxmaid ducked, raising her basket above her head, catching the glaive in the sturdy weave. A twist of the basket took the squirrel off balance and the vixen dove for a sturdy quarterstaff leaned against the hut as the squirrelmaid quickly freed her weapon.

Axe ready in both paws, the third dogfox met the river otter's charge with glimmering yellow fangs and an amber gaze dancing with eagerness for battle. They clashed, whirling scimitars against hefty axe, straining for a moment as they locked blades, then twisting apart. Again they came, circling wary this time, and again they clashed, and the clearing rang with the bell tones of steel on steel.

The older vixen shoved her brood of younglings into the hut as she took up a spear from just inside the doorway, crouching with bared fangs as the older mouse closed in on her. Her silver-touched fur rose on edge, ears flattened to her skull as she prepared to defend her young with her very life. The vixen's silver-red brush lashed with motherly rage as she jabbed the spear in expert warning, keeping the saber-armed mouse at bay with the longer reach of her polearm.

The wounded dogfox stood ready for the younger mouse as the inexperienced mouse warrior charged him, leaving his defenses open as he swung his paw-and-a-half sword with reckless abandon. A wonder the youngling had survived long enough to be taken captive…but he'd not survive much longer. The grizzled old fox easily blocked the blade, sliding his cutlass down to the hilt, catching at the guard and _twisting…_ The mouse's sword skittered out of his paws, landing with a clatter and a hiss of disturbed embers on the stone-ringed fire. Sparks shot into the air, blinding in the dimming light, and by the time Kiern's eyes cleared enough to see, the mouse lay slain by a single blow to the chest, sprawled in a growing pool of blood on the stained earth.

_"Caliaaaan!"_

A cry of grief and rage erupting from the squirrel leader and he charged with the long dagger and an arrow as his only weapons weapons. The dogfox turned, surprised by the speed and ferocity of the squirrel's attack, barely fending off the dagger with his cutlass as the arrow's point sank into his thigh. A roar of pain and the dogfox pushed with his blade, trying to force the squirrel back, trying to wound him in return…

Kiern glanced aside as a second scream met his sharp ears. The older mouse had ducked below the older vixen's spear and slashed her stomach open, spilling entrails to the hut's dirt-packed floor. Shriller screams erupted from inside the hut and the vixen fell to her knees, gasping as the mouse warrior closed in for the kill.

"Mommeeeeee!" A wail of grief and horror from one of the fox kits in the hut, and the vixen's eyes narrowed with determination, even as saltwater regret glimmered over the silt amber gaze.

"Leave…them…_be!_" Gasped through the agony and she lunged at the mouse with the last of her strength, landing atop his sword but clamping her jaws shut over his throat, locking them tight as death began to seal them closed for eternity.

_"Nooo!_" The tod armed with the axe saw the vixen fall over the shoulder of his opponent, and that minute distraction was all the otter needed. Cutlasses whirling, he chopped past the dogfox's guard to slice into his leg, and almost lashed into the fox's neck before the axe haft came up and blocked it.

Kiern looked from battle to battle. The young vixen suffered from shallow gashes but her squirrelmaid opponent was limping from bruised bones and perhaps a few broken ones as well. The older dogfox seemed to have the upper hand with his foe, but the squirrel was not nearly so badly wounded as his opponent, and the fox wouldn't last long with that bloodloss. Any longer and the recruition team would not have enough new soldiers to replace the ones lost in the woodlander battle…

"Attack!" The harsh yell erupted from Kiern's throat and he and the small group of Nighthunt soldiers spilled out into the clearing. Kiern saw Astarte cut down the river otter from behind, laughing all the merry while, but then he had to concentrate on his own shimmering blade as he neared the hedgehog and her beleaguered opponent. His saber blocked her club just before it crashed down on the nearly unconscious tod's head, and he lashed out with one footpaw, catching the hedgehog in her unprotected stomach.

The hedgehog wheezed out a laugh, grim and unsurprised. "I see yer game now, vermin…such is te be expected from ye scum!" She twisted her club from his saber's grip and let out a wordless yell, slamming her weapon down towards Kiern's head.

But the stoat wasn't the captain of the Longclaws' elite guard for nothing. He blocked the club with the flat of his blade, sliding it harmlessly to the side, then twisting body and blade in a single smooth movement. The tip of his saber sank into the hedgehog's throat, turning bright red with the surge of lifeblood in an instant, and he yanked it down and out as the woodlander fell with a gasping gurgle.

Kiern turned, breath only somewhat heavier than normal from the brief fight, gaze searching for more opponents. Skyfire stood over the body of the squirrelmaid, jaw clenched and head bowed as she cleaned off her bloodstained rapier. One of the recruition team, a rough-built ferret, wiped his axe clean as he leaned against the hut, watching the suffocating older mouse gasp for breath beneath the dead vixen. A slice from the ferret's axe against the mouse's rib cage had hastened the process along, but now he merely watched with a sort of detached curiosity. The squirrel leader lay slain not too far away, taken out by the expert cutlass of a Nightclaw weasel.

The stoat captain nodded and plunged his saber into the violence-stained soil to clean it of blood. A swipe from a black cloth returned it to an acceptable gleam, and he sheathed the weapon with a single smooth motion. The battle of blades and blood was done; now came the far more subtle battle for loyalty.

"Stormsong!" Kiern's call rang clear over the clearing, cutting through the groans of wounded and the sobs of motherless kits.

The weasel needed no further notice. He'd already begun to make his way to the eldest dogfox, and now he crouched over the grizzled form with his healing kit at paw. The prone tod glared up at him, one paw clenching for his stray cutlass. "Leave…me be…weasel…" he snarled, a fighter to the last.

Stormsong shook his head. "Fight me not, warrior," he said, melodic voice reassuring and calming. "I come to heal thee, not to harm thee."

"Eh?" The fox tilted his head, eyes narrowing in puzzled suspicion. "Why would ye do somethin' like that?"

The healer pulled clean gauze from his kit and poised his paw over the arrow embedded in the fox's shoulder. "It shall be explained to thee and thine soon, but thou will soon perish if thine wounds be not cared for. Allow me to do so?"

A long silence from the tod, a grimace of pain, then a nod as he rested his head against the soiled earth, teeth gritting in anticipation of the agony of arrows being removed from flesh.

The elder dogfox was the most sorely wounded; Kiern closed his ears to the wrenching sounds of pain from the grizzled tod, turning his attention to the other foxes instead. The vixen crouched over the body of the elder female, head bowed, saltwater grief dripping down her muzzle onto the bloodstained form of the dead vixen. With wide gazes and uncertain movements, the three kits took step by hesitating step through the doorway of the hut, staring at the prostate form of their mother, not yet comprehending the fact that she was forever gone.

The tod who'd been fighting the river otter dropped his axe, staring blankly at the body of the vixen, seeming oblivious to the watching eyes of the Nighthunt team. He staggered as if through a dream across the clearing, never once looking away from the pile of russet fur etched with silver--and now stained with deepest red. A low moan wrenched from his throat as he fell to his knees beside her, purest grief, and he closed his eyes in unimaginable loss as he lifted his muzzle to the sky, silver-white throat flashing gold in the fading sunlight as he let loose a grieving cry, wavering in the still air.

A sob tore loose from the young vixen's chest at the sound, and she hugged herself tight as if to ward against the pain that assaulted her spirit, ignoring the shallow cuts across her body that caused far less agony. She, too, raised her face to the expanse of darkening blue, joining her voice to the older fox's.

They were joined by a third cry, the youngest tod's sorrow melding with their own as he stumbled to the slain vixen's body as well, and then three pitiful shrill wails soared above the mourning harmonies as the kits cried their grief and loss, understanding at last that their mother was never going to return.

Something clenched tight in Kiern's chest as he watched the grieving foxes, listened to their song of farewell to the dead member of their family. _This is mostly your fault, you know…_ A treacherous whisper of guilt rippling through his mind, and he bared his fangs and shook his head in disgust. _Creatures die all the time. They'll live a better life with the Nighthunt. My duty is almost complete._

"Amusing, isn't it?"

A grimace twitched over Kiern's face as Astarte's smirking tones reached his ears. He erased the expression as he turned, cast a dismissive glance over her sultry pose, and let his gaze return to the grieving brood. "What do you mean?"

The stoat fem motioned to include the entire clearing. "We saved them and all they can think about's th' loss of their poor fem, who'd've likely died afore too long anyway." A chuckle. "Pitiful, really."

Kiern forced his features to remain devoid of expression, though his ears flickered back in an attempt to lay flat against his skull. "That means, at least, that they probably have some measure of loyalty. Likely they'll be no challenge to recruit."

"Heh…" A grin from Astarte as she eyed the other captain from the corner of her dark gaze. "Yore always surprisin', Kiern. Yer more ruthless'n I'd thought. Good t'know." She inclined her head in mock respect, then sauntered off to chat with the ferret who leaned up against the hut, honing his axe as he watched the scene.

_Disgusting…_ Kiern swiped away the troubled thoughts Astarte's words had brought to the surface with that one word, directing his inner turmoil towards the stoat fem as pure disgust and anger.

"Captain?"

Skyfire's voice this time. The Nightclaws captain forced himself to relax, turning to his subcaptain with a questioning look. "Yes?"

She edged from footpaw to footpaw, uneasy and uncertain. "Shouldn't we…start recruiting now…?" She glanced to the fox brood and swallowed, then lowered her gaze to her still-drawn rapier. "I mean…the others are getting restless…and we ought to bury the bodies…or at least burn them…and probably the foxes'll want to bury the vixen…and…"

Kiern let out an inaudible sigh and nodded. "Aye, you're right…thank you, subcaptain." He nodded silent approval as she blinked in mild surprise, and then the stoat captain headed over to the foxes as their mourning melody finally faded to silence, leaving them with bowed heads and drooping ears.

"Ahem…" Kiern cleared his throat just loudly enough to catch the brood's attention. The three adults lifted their heads, all eyes dry and empty with grief. He nearly took a step back from the force of those pain-filled gazes, but didn't move from his relaxed stance. He lowered his head in acknowledgement of their loss. "I am sorry for the death of your kin…"

A choked sob freed itself from the young vixen's throat. "She … she was my mother…"

"And mine…" This last from the young dogfox.

The third fox rose to his footpaws, nodding silent greeting to the stoat. "She were my mate," he said simply, "and we'll be missin' her…" A deep breath and he composed himself, facing Kiern with a direct gaze, gathering the shattered pieces of his soul together once more. "I be Swiftaxe Lothame. My mate," and the word caught in his throat, but he forced the rest of the sentence out despite the recent loss, "were Sagebrush Lothame. The young vixen here…she be my daughter, Loamstar Lothame; the young tod be my son, Bladefall Lothame; and th' elder fox th' weasel be treatin' be my mate's sire, Shade Venant." A short bow, unpracticed but well meant. "We thank ye fer joinin' with us against th' woodlanders. More've us might be at hellgates but fer you an' yourn."

A nod from Kiern in acknowledgement. "I am Kiern, Captain of the Nightclaws of the Nighthunt. Our leader is the wolverine Nightdeath Longclaws."

Swiftaxe's amber gaze widened. "Longclaws… We've heard of th' dark wolverine. Ye serve him?"

"Aye…and of my own full will. It's steady pay, good clothing, decent food…good work, and the Longclaws is a fine leader." Kiern studied the foxes for a moment, weighing his words with care. "Might you and your brood be interested in joining our army? We're always looking for good fighters…"

A long silence from the fox, and he turned towards his son and daughter. "I'll not be choosin' for ye. What do ye be wantin'?"

The vixen was the first to reply, raising her chin high with stubborn resolve. "I shall join th' Nighthunt, and fight." Her paw clenched about her quarterstaff. "Never again…" The last two words held the ring of a vow, but were spoken so quiet that Kiern could scarce be sure he'd heard her right.

Bladefall looked to his mother's corpse, to the crying kits, to his father's waiting gaze, and at last to Kiern. "Aye. I'll be glad te join yer warriors."

"'Tis settled then," Swiftaxe said. "I know Shade's answer afore he speaks it…he'll be joinin' us too." He hesitated. "What of th' kits…?"

"They'll be taken care of," Kiern said, reassurance clear in his quiet voice. "We have several younglings at the Nighthunt. They're trained from an early age to fight, and kept out from under warriors' paws."

"Good…" A sigh heaved from Swiftaxe's chest, and he turned to his mate's body. "We'd best be buryin' her, then…" He bent down to touch the bloodstained cheek, and a lone tear trickled from one amber eye. "Fare ye well, Sage…"

The foxes showed mixed reactions as they entered the Nighthunt camp. From the oldest fox, leaning most of his weight on Stormsong's supportive shoulder, there was studied inexpression and a hint of grudging approval at the healer led him off to the infirmary tent. From Swiftaxe, a grim acceptance amid the sadness in his demeanor. The face of his son Bladefall held undisguised awe and the beginnings of excitement, admiration flashing in his eyes as he watched several black-uniformed Nightfangs engage in rapid sparring. The vixen Loamstar looked much the same, but it was a strange hunger that burned in her expression as she followed each deadly motion, paw gripping tighter on her quarterstaff in anticipation.

Kiern's jaw tightened at that baleful light in the young vixen's gaze. I My doing… /I Again that stray thread of guilt, honor stinging at his conscience like a nagging mosquito, but he shoved it away, turned away, forced his thoughts to less troublesome matters. He tried instead to view the camp as the foxes viewed it, as if seeing it for the first time.

Orderly tents lined the clearing like so many rows of roosting ravens. Five groups of tents and bedrolls, five groups of well-tended campfires. Circles of waiting soldiers marked out sparring grounds in each section of the camp, metallic clashes and steel flashes ringing from the active circles. Around campfires sat black-garbed Nighthunt, cleaning weapons, mending uniforms, exchanging stories and gossip over the flickering flames. Discipline showed in the rising and saluting as the three captains passed by with the recruition team and the new recruits.

The faint clearing of a vulpine throat caught his attention. "Uhm… Captain Kiern?"

Kiern glanced to the side to see the young tod, timid and uncertain, amber gaze burning with unasked questions. "Yes?"

"Uhm…" Bladefall's glance shifted to the side, caught on the black tents. "Where be we going…an' what be th' groups of tents for…an' what do th' red gloves be meanin'…and…" The tumult of questions poured out of his mouth like an avalanche, freed with one sound and then unstoppable.

Except by one thing. "Bladefall." The stern reproach of his father's voice clamped his jaws shut with an audible click. "I be sure th' captain be havin' more important things than to…"

A chuckle from Kiern. "No, it's all right. I don't mind answering his questions."

A grin spread across the young tod's russet face. "Thanks!"

Kiern nodded, barely suppressing his own grin, this one of amusement at Bladefall's youthful exuberance. "Well…" He glanced about him, wondering where to begin. "The Nighthunt is divided into five units: the Nightclaws, the Nightfangs, the Nightarms, the Nightblood, and the Nighteyes. I am the captain of the Nightclaws, the personal guard of Nightdeath Longclaws. We only accept elite fighters who are absolutely loyal to the Longclaws. You can tell the Nightclaws from the rest of the Nighthunt by their black cloaks."

"Elite fighters?" Bladefall's eyes gleamed. "How do ye get into th' Nightclaws?"

"First there has to be an opening…there's a score of fighters in each unit, and the Nightclaws lose less than most units. When there's an opening, I go through available soldiers and narrow the numbers down until I find the best fighter that is also suitably loyal. Usually there's a couple soldiers I've already had in mind, so it's not too long a process."

Bladefall nodded, thinking it over. "What about th' other units?"

Kiern inclined his head in Astarte's direction and kept his dislike of her from his expression and voice. "Astarte Darkmoon is the captain of the Nightfangs. They're our main fighting force—first into battle and last to leave. You'll be placed under her command; they suffer the most losses and so need newbeasts more than the other units. The Nightfangs are marked by the red gloves they wear."

A pause as they passed a sparring ring in the Nightclaw camp, the ringing of steel and shouts of onlookers momentarily drowning out all talk. "Then there's the Nighteyes—the spies and scouts of the Nighthunt. Stormsong here is their captain. They are marked by their lack of uniform—they wear whatever blends best into their surroundings. Most of them know more than just woodlore and tracking, too; they're versed in many crafts so as to blend better with other creatures. Stormsong is a healer and a bard; others are carpenters, smiths, cooks, tailors…" A shrug. "They're perhaps the most useful unit, when we're not fighting."

"The Nightarms are led by Captain Deathcry." His mouth twisted ever so slightly on the name but he suppressed it to blankness. "They are archers, slingers, javelinbeasts…" A shrug. "They are marked by leather armguards."

"The Nightblood…" A wry smile, distaste flickering in the shadows of that dark gaze. "They are assassins. Also our healers, since they know so much of herblore and wounds. Veneno is the Nightblood captain…you can recognize him by his black cloak and scythe, and you can recognize the rest of the Nightblood by their fangs and claws…they dye them blood red."

"What be the ranking system?" This last came from Loamstar, quiet until then; Kiern glanced at her in mild surprise.

"We don't have much of one…" he said. "The Longclaws is our leader—he's the highest in rank, I suppose… then there's the five captains, marked by white bars on their uniform…" he brushed his claws across the three white stripes on the neck of his black tunic, "and each captain has one or two subcaptains, marked by two white bars…but beyond that, there's no real ranking. Veterans have more privileges than new recruits, but that's just within the ranks themselves—that's not anything official."

The vixen nodded and fell silent, a thoughtful look on her angular features as they continued walking. Kiern's gaze flickered to Bladefall. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

The young tod's mouth twisted in thought. "Uhm... Oh!" A sheepish grin skittered across his face. "Ah…where do we be gettin' food?"

That startled a laugh from the normally shy Skyfire, trailing behind Kiern. "Typical young one, aren't you…?" she said with a smile, then shook her head in amusement at his self-conscious scowl. "Everybeast usually cooks their own food—it's distributed by the Nighteyes—or get somebeast who knows how to cook to cook it for them. You usually have to pay for it somehow though—either with coin or with a service in exchange."

"But…" Bladefall stared about at the mass of tents and fires. "What group be the Nighteyes?"

"The one with all the Nighteyes in it, of course…" Skyfire shrugged. "Or you could just look at the banners. The Nighteyes' banner is the blue eye on a white field; the Nightclaws are white claws on a black shield on a blue field; the Nightfangs are white fangs on a crimson field; the Nightblood are a crimson dagger on a gray field; and the Nightarms are crossed black arrows on a gold field." She motioned to the white claw insignia on her uniform. "The banner of the Nighthunt, and of the Longclaws, is the same as the Nighthunt's uniform—white claws on a black field."

Bladefall rubbed his temples, eyes beginning to unfocus just a little. "I be not knowin' if I can be rememberin' all this."

Kiern's subcaptain smiled and patted the young tod on the shoulder. "You'll learn—it's not difficult. Likely you'll be too caught up in training to worry about much anyway."

"Aye, that you will." Astarte's voice, languorous and smirking. "I'm not easy on th' recruits."

Kiern managed not to roll his eyes. I How easy will you be on the young tod, whore? /I But he kept it to himself, even as the stoat fem gave him a slow and sultry wink. I 

He was saved from Astarte's antics by the sudden looming of a large black tent. "Ah…here we are." Kiern ducked his head through the half-open tent flap, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light within. "Woodrell?"

A rustle of papers and a shadowed paw waved in distracted greeting. "What do you want this—oh!" The grizzled rat blinked in owlish surprise as he recognized the tall stoat in the tent entrance. "Captain! Sorry, didn't realize…" He clambered to his footpaws, rattling inkwells and shifting scrolls in the process, and offered a salute stiff from a body hunched too long over papers and quills. It seemed odd to see ink stained paws on as athletic a creature as Woodrell—he was burly for his species, and tall, with scars lacing his graying fur that spoke of battle experience.

"At ease…" The rat settled back into his seat with a grimace and Kiern motioned the fox brood into the tent. A word to the recruition team and they saluted farewell, dispersing in a matter of moments, all except Astarte.

"These are the new recruits," Kiern said to the rat. "There's another one, an older tod, but he's injured so you can take your time getting his records…"

"Take my time, take my time," Woodrell muttered, fumbling for scrolls. "Shoddy way to run an army, very shoddy. And you a scribe too. Hmph."

A smile tugged at the corner of the stoat's mouth. "Whatever you'd prefer. It's your job." He glanced over at the bemused foxes. "This is Woodrell of the Nighteyes. He's…well, you could call him our resident record keeper. He handles the entry of new recruits and he keeps track of records, unused uniforms, and unused weapons."

"Yes, yes, that's my job…" More muttering, and the rat dipped his quill in an inkwell and poised it over a fresh sheet of parchment. He looked expectantly at Swiftaxe. "Well, well? Don't just stand there gawking—what's your name?"

Indignation flashed in the amber eyes and the older tod's paw clenched, but he forced himself to relax. "Swiftaxe Lothame," he said through tight jaws.

"Lothame, Swiftaxe, male fox, and that axe, that one in your belt, is that your preferred weapon?"

The tod touched a paw to the well-used haft. "Aye, that it be."

"Good, good, no need to use up weapons then, very good." Woodrell squinted at the parchment, then up at the tod. "Any other weapons, maybe? Other skills, any disabilities, hmm?"

"I be good enough at slingin' a knife," Swiftaxe said with a shrug, "but not much else. An' I be not bad at trackin', neither."

The flicker of a scowl passed across the rat's face. "Throwing knife for you then, yes, of course, and tracking, good, good… You!" The black-brown gaze pierced Bladefall like twin arrows. "Your name. Tell it. And your weapon, and all the rest, like your father, of course, of course."

"Uhmm…" Bladefall shifted from paw to paw, eyes flicking to his father.

"Not all day, young tod!" A harrumph from the rat. "Hurry, hurry, haven't got all day you know…"

The tod ducked his head in self-conscious apology. "Sorry…uhm…I be Bladefall Lothame…I be usin' the longknife, nothin' else yet…an'…that be all, sir."

"Hmph. Well, Darkmoon'll be shapin' you up soon, she will, or she'd better. Longknife! Pah!"

Bladefall stiffened. "It be a good weapon!"

"Hmph." The rat shook his head and dipped his quill again. "You. Vixen."

She nodded, closing her eyes for the briefest instant. "I be Loamstar Lothame. My weapon be the quarterstaff, though I be wantin' to learn any other polearm. I be skilled in cookin', mendin', an' woodlore."

"Pah." The quill scratched across the parchment. "Cookin' an' mendin', everybeast here learns anyhow. Woodlore, though, that's good to know, it is, it is." A shake of drying powder and he stood, shoving past the foxes and ducking through the tent flap. "Come, come, don't just stand there…"

The foxes exchanged glances and followed, somewhat hesitative. A smile tugged at Kiern's mouth as he stepped into the open air, and Astarte laughed aloud as she left the shadows of the tent.

"Are recruits always this amusin'?" she asked in a low tone, walking alongside Kiern.

He edged away, uncomfortable with the invasion of his space. "Aye; though it's Woodrell that's the most amusing…"

Silence for a moment, trailing along behind the foxes that followed the grizzled rat like confused ducklings after their mother. Astarte watched them with a rare thoughtful look, head tilted just a bit. "That vixen…"

"Hm?" Kiern glanced at the stoat in mild surprise. "What about her?"

"She's th' most promisin' of th' lot." The dark eyes narrowed, and for a moment Astarte lost any trace of seduction. "Reminds me almost of myself…"

Kiern blinked, studying the stoat fem intently as her gaze turned inward, as a brief frown creased her forehead. Then she closed her eyes, shook her head as if to free it from clinging thoughts, and grinned over at Kiern.

"Enough of that…"

Her voice turned sultry as she looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, sidled close enough for Kiern to feel her body heat. He snarled and whirled away, stalking ahead to catch up to the foxes as Astarte's laugh rang out behind him with mocking amusement.

"…here it is, here it is…"

Woodrell's muttering voice drifted down the wind to Kiern's flattened ears, and he forced himself to relax, paws unclenching and muscles loosening. They'd reached a large cart, covered against the rain threatened by gathering clouds.

"Let's see, hmm, hmm…" The tall rat shoved his head under the tarp, rummaging around for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder at Swiftaxe, squinted, then turned back to the tarp's shadowed contents. A few eyeblinks later he straightened and shoved a pile of black cloth at the tod.

"What…" Swiftaxe shook out the top garment and blinked in realization at the sight of white clawmarks on the black tunic. "I see."

In short time, all three foxes had their uniforms, complete with crimson gloves to mark them as soldiers of the Nightfangs. Swiftaxe was also given a couple of throwing knives in decent condition, and Loamstar was now armed with a finely crafted glaive—a staff topped with a slightly curving blade.

"You're all ready, then?" Astarte asked, glancing from fox to fox.

Woodrell nodded for them. "Yes, yes, all done. Now shoo, all of you. I've got work to do. Work, work…hmph…" He shook his head and hunched his shoulders, muttering to himself as he strode back to his tent and his quill.

"Good…" Astarte grinned back at Swiftaxe, Loamstar, and Bladefall. "Let's be goin', then." She cast a wink back at Kiern. "See you 'round, captain."

The stoat suppressed a grimace of utter distaste, then nodded to the three foxes. "Good luck."

Swiftaxe offered a passable attempt at the Nighthunt salute. "Thank ye, Captain Kiern."

A nod from the Nightclaws captain, and he watched for a moment as Astarte led the new recruits to the Nightfangs' camp. Then, with the touch of a rueful smile lingering on his face, Kiern turned and headed back to his own command.


	12. Doubts and Decisions

Vengeance Quest Chapter 12: Doubts and Decisions 

It was night by the time Kiern headed back to the Nightclaws camp. A long day…a battle the night before, the whole recruiting process, the evening report to the Longclaws…it all built up to drain the stoat captain of energy. His weariness didn't show in his movements, though, as he strode through the Nighthunt camp, path threading around nightblack tents, reddish coat flaring to the color of flame in the light of campfires, then dimming to shadowed rust as he passed the ring of light and warmth given off by each healthy fire.

Exhaustion and preoccupied thoughts dulled his senses, so that the sound of muffled screams didn't register on his consciousness until he was nearly right next to the source. Then his ears pricked up, wary tension overtook his entire wiry form, and his paw went to his saber as he listened, searched for the source of the agonized fearful screams.

There. A black tent lit within by torchlight, with dark shapes clustered at the entrance. Cruel laughter echoed from the onlookers with each renewed scream from within. Kiern's gaze narrowed, his paw clenched on his weapon's hilt as anger flared, and his pace quickened with furious purpose.

"Haha, show th' undersized rat wot real fun is, Skintail!"

"Yah, she ain't seemin' te understand t'concept yet, eh?"

Kiern's jaw muscles clenched and one paw shot out, grasped the nearest onlooker by the back of the neck. "What is going on?" he growled as the ferret stiffened under his iron grip.

"C-captain!" the ferret gasped, red-gloved paw crossing to his shoulder in a shaky salute. "Er…uhm… we's just havin' some fun with a captive…Longclaws gave th' fems ter us…"

A growl rumbled from the stoat's throat as fury gripped his paw tighter, drawing a pained squeak from the Nightfang soldier. Kiern pushed the ferret aside and shouldered his way into the tent, the scene within only intensifying his rage. A half-clothed rat lay atop one of the captives, a pretty female mouse, his paws pinning her to the ground along with his weight, and tears ran down her face as her useless screams rent the air, cries of pain and pleas for help as she begged the rat to stop.

That wasn't what made Kiern the angriest, though. What drove his rage to nearly blind him was the sight of a black cloak, a cloak of the Nightclaws, laid in a pile next to the mouse and rat along with the rat's breeches.

_"Enough!_"

The rat was too occupied in his "fun" to realize the danger burning behind him. Kiern reached down and grabbed the rat by the collar of his rumpled tunic, ripped him off the mouse and threw him to the side. Too caught up in his own anger, Kiern ignored the mousemaid as she curled into a whimpering ball of blood and sweat and tears, sobbing with exertion and fear and pain. Kiern advanced on the bewildered rat, his face the picture of cold rage.

"Oy, whatcha doin' that fer?! I was just gettin' ter th'…" Then the rat realized just who had flung him off his victim and the blood drained from his face. "Captain! Wot're yew doin' 'ere… I mean…"

Kiern forced the rat to his footpaws, jerking him up by his tunic collar. "Get your clothes back on," he snarled, fangs bared with savage fury. "Get back to the Nightclaws. Tell Skyfire to round up the rest of the unit. _Now!_"

With a frightened squeak, the rat dove for his clothing, pulling it on in fearful haste as Kiern stormed out of the tent, paws curled into fists at his side.

"You!"

The ferret Kiern had interrogated earlier yelped and drew back as the stoat captain rounded on him. "Y-yessir?"

"Where are the other captives?"

He gulped and pointed a shaky claw to a nearby tent. "An' Subcaptain Patcheye's got th' third 'un, sir…"

Kiern nodded, curt and tense, and whirled on one paw to stalk the rest of the way to the other tent.

There was a slightly larger group outside this one, mostly Nightfangs and Nightblood with a few Nightarms mixed in. Kiern scanned the group for black cloaks and his gaze fell on a weasel at the front of the line, about to enter the tent for his turn. A growl and Kiern's paw wrapped around the Nightclaw's cloak, yanking him to an abrupt stop.

"Return to the Nightclaw camp," Kiern spat, as recognition flashed in the weasel's dark gaze.

He gulped and saluted shakily. "Yessir!"

The stoat turned to the nearest soldier, a red-fanged Nightblood. "Who's in there right now?"

"Er…" The small dogfox shifted from paw to paw. "He…"

_"Tell me._"

A wince as the captain's voice cracked out like a punishing whip. "Rakel. Th'—th' Nightclaws all went first 'cos…"

"One of mine." The words were growled, low and threatening, and Kiern swept into the tent to the sight of a blank-eyed squirrelmaid huddled under a rough blanket while a fox tugged on his breeches.

Kiern's fangs bared in a silent snarl and he scooped up the fox's fallen cloak, tossing it into the unsuspecting Nightclaw's angular face. The fox yelped, whirled into a fighter's crouch, and his amber gaze widened at the sight of his captain.

"Captain!" He straightened, saluted, swallowing hard at the rage clear in every line of his superior's tense form.

"Back to the Nightclaws camp." Every word was clipped, hissed past clenched jaws, and the fox nodded in hasty assent, fleeing the tent as if a demon were at his heels.

Kiern looked down at the squirrelmaid, his nose twitching at the musky scent that coated the air, and he whirled to the tent entrance, paw gripping almost spasmodically at his saber as he shoved past the fearful soldiers, heading with savage purpose to the Nightclaws camp, all former weariness forgotten in his rage.

Skyfire had acted quickly when given the command to gather the Nightclaws. They stood in silent formation when Kiern stalked in, rare anger still evident in every tight muscle. Nervous expectation rippled through the ranks as he stopped in sight of all his command, fury burning from his light brown gaze in the crimson light of the campfire.

"I discovered three of you lowering yourself to the level of common slumbeasts today," he said, not quite succeeding at keeping a growl from the clipped words. "Skintail, Rakel, Darksnout!" The three names lashed out like triple cracks of a deadly whip, and the threebeasts named stepped forward with dread drooping their ears and hunching their shoulders.

Kiern stepped forward, circled the three with his ears laid flat against his skull, fists clenching and unclenching. "These three were apparently unable to find willing bedpartners among the horde," he said, forcing scorn into his voice despite the fact that he felt only fury. "They had to resort to raping captive woodlanders."

A growl, and he whirled on the rat, weasel, and fox. "You are _Nightclaws!_ The elite soldiers of the Nighthunt! There is _no need_ to lower yourself to bedding woodlanders. And I will _not_ tolerate rape of _anybeast_, vermin or woodlander, not in my command! You need not and _will not_ bed the unwilling, _none_ of you will," and this he directed to the entire Nightclaws, "not while you serve under me!"

He turned back to the three hapless soldiers, eyes narrowed to thin slits. "The three of you will serve latrine duty for the entire camp, and on half rations, until I feel you have been given sufficient punishment. Be grateful that I am not more severe. If there is another instance of this…you _will_ be discharged from the Nightclaws after you have received a lashing. _Do you understand?_"

The quivering soldiers snapped out salutes and a stumbling, "Y-yessir!"

"Good." Kiern glared at the three of them. "You may begin your duties tonight. Go!"

"Yessir!"

They scattered, tails tucked and ears flattened, fear written in every movement.

Kiern turned to the uneasy Nightclaws, words snapping from his throat. "The same punishment will be dealt any of you who does these things!" Silence from the unit, and he glared over the ranks. "Dismissed!"

As the black shapes faded into the darkening night, Skyfire stepped silently up to her captain's side, watching the Nightclaws disperse with a rare anger in her own face, clenching her jaw and glittering in her gaze. "The Longclaws allowed this?" she asked, voice quiet and tight.

Kiern nodded once. "Aye."

A low growl rumbled from her throat. "How could he…?"

"I…" Kiern's paw clenched at his side and he took a deep ragged breath, forcing himself to relax, at least part way. "It is not our role to question him."

Skyfire's fangs flashed red in the firelight. "Not our—" but she bit off the retort and her anger left her in a long sigh, drooping her shoulders and head. "Nay. It isn't our role, is it…?" And now there was only sadness in her voice, and a faint bitterness.

Kiern shot her a sharp glance, eyes narrowing. "Something bothers you."

A grimace. "It's just…" She looked at him for a long moment, studied the steel in his gaze, shook her head. "Never mind…it doesn't matter."

The stoat captain's lips thinned. "You are angry at him."

"Yes, I am!" The explosion burst from the quiet stoat's lips like a river from a finally broken dam. "Aren't you? This is… this is dishonorable, it's disgusting, it's…"

"Stop." Kiern's paw shot out and gripped her muzzle shut, gentle and firm at the same time. Skyfire glared up at him for a long moment, mouth twitching in an attempt to hold back a snarl. She searched his eyes with fury in hers, body tensed in frustrated anger, and then it all rushed out of her body in a single moment and she closed her eyes, biting her lower lip as her legs threatened to collapse beneath her.

Kiern's eyes widened at that and he shifted his grip to her arm, holding her upright, gaze raking her weary form with a studied scrutiny. "You're exhausted," he said at last. "It'll do you no good to collapse in front of the troops… Can you walk?"

An uncertain nod was the answer and he let out a sigh, slinging her arm over his shoulders to better support her. "Let's go to your tent…"

The subcaptain's tent wasn't that far, positioned right next to Kiern's. They ducked under the tent flap and Skyfire staggered to her bedroll, collapsed into it with a fatigued sigh, dropped her head into shaking paws as her shoulders shook with inexplicable sobs.

"Subcaptain…?" Puzzlement crossed the stoat's face, uncertainty curling about his mind. _What am I supposed to do about this?_

Her paws clenched into fists, claws digging into flesh as she tried to stop the tears. "I—I'm sorry," she choked out at last. "Likely…likely I'm just tired, that's all…"

Kiern frowned. "Skyfire, we've worked together too long for you to be able to lie to me. What is wrong?"

"What's _wrong?_" Again that flash of anger, and her tear-streaked face lifted to stare at him. "Our chief condones something as dishonorable and disgusting as _rape_ and your only answer is that we aren't supposed to question him?! How can you say you _aren't_ angry?" He opened his mouth to retort, a frown creasing his brow, but she didn't give him a chance. "I saw you, back there—I've _never_ seen you so angry. You were furious, you _are_ furious, but you can't say the Longclaws might have…"

"Subcaptain!" The word was snapped out, breaking her tirade, and she stared at him with defiance stiffening her jaw. Kiern's paw clenched at his side as he tried to remain calm. "Enough. What you speak…it's enough to get you executed."

"Executed." A snarl ripped across her face. "And is that the only reason you won't say anything against him? Fear? Is _that_ it?"

His paw reached back and Skyfire's eyes widened, and then a bitter smile twisted her mouth. "Go ahead, Kiern… I suppose one more disappointment won't hurt me much more."

Kiern blinked, stared at his upraised paw, lowered it shakily. "I…" A deep breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't…" Another breath, forcing his scattered thoughts to order. "It's not fear that keeps me from speaking against the Longclaws," he said at last. "It's loyalty. He saved my life, he raised me, he trained me, he placed me as his captain… I've served under him for seasons and I know he doesn't do anything without good reason. So…there must be a reason for this, too…"

Skyfire sighed and closed her eyes. "Morale, or because the captives are dead weight…does it matter? Does that justify this?"

"I don't…" Kiern shook his head. "I don't know. It has to."

"Has to." The stoat fem tilted her head, studied her captain for a few long moments. "I…think I understand… You'll always be loyal to him, won't you?" she said, voice thoughtful. "No matter what he does…?"

A shrug, uncertain, not really wanting to think about it. "Perhaps. Likely so…"

She smiled, very slight and still sad. "Well…" The ghost of a nod. "I'll see you tomorrow, then…"

Kiern nodded in return, accepting the hint to leave. "Aye, tomorrow. Fare thee well, subcaptain."

He turned away as Skyfire's slight sad smile burned into his back, the touch of pity in her gaze itching at his skull as he stepped into the night air, troubled thoughts circling 'round his mind all the while.

The night passed for Kiern in restless sleep, Skyfire's words ripping at his consciousness, his own doubts keeping him from full unconsciousness until the gray light of dawn erased the stars from the sky. He rose, bleary-eyed and exhausted, stumbling to the washbasin to cleanse away the sleep and jerk him to wakefulness.

Outside, the Nighthunt were already stirring. It took Kiern, still not fully awake, several moments to realize why. "Ah yes…" he murmured. "We're returning to the march today."

A frown as indecision tugged at his mind. Pack first, or speak to the Longclaws first…? Doubts whirled, and then so did Kiern, striding with purposeful speed to his leader's tent.

Kiern stood outside the dark tent, ears pricked forward at the sound of scraping and thudding—the Longclaws had already begun to pack. One paw raised to the tent pole, reached back to rap on the wood—and then pulled back as black cloth rustled and a dark, angular head snaked into the open air.

Surprise didn't hinder ingrained reactions. Kiern's paw snapped to his shoulder in a sharp salute. "Sir."

"Captain." Ebon eyes studied the stoat's, and a long moment passed before the wolverine nodded, short and curt. "Come in."

Uneasiness nudged and tugged at Kiern's stomach, but he forced himself to outward calm, set his thoughts in the order he so valued, and ducked inside the tent. The narrow cot lay dismantled on the ground, wrapped in a badger-fur blanket, the distinct white stripe contrasting violently with the inky dark of the surroundings. Atop that pile lay clean black uniforms, barely visible in the guttering candlelight. Beyond, Nightdeath worked at packing papers and inks in a compact carrying case, seeming to ignore his captain.

"…Sir?"

Rounded ears flicked back. "Aye, captain, what d'ye be wantin'?"

Kiern shifted his weight, mind marshalling words into coherency. "Last night, I was told that you gave the three captive woodland fems to the troops." Silence, a quiet breath, watching the Longclaws continue packing as if he'd not even heard his captain. "Sir…may I ask why?"

No answer. The wolverine placed the last bottle of ink in the safety of its carrying case, closed the lid and latched it, then rose and turned to face Kiern at last. The dark gaze pierced Kiern's as if rifling through the very secrets of the stoat's soul, and then a slight nod. "There was high tension among th' troops. Couldna ye sense it?"

"…Aye." A frown creased Kiern's forehead, shadowed his gaze. "But…rape?"

_"Rape?!"_ A snarl from the Longclaws and his teeth bared, flashing white, ebon eyes narrowing to slits. "They be woodlanders, do ye noo ken? Lesser'n our kind, not worthy o' respect—it be not _rape_!"

Despite his usual iron control, Kiern took a step back, shock rippling across his tense form at his chief's outburst. "S-sir…" A deep breath and he regained control, straightening once more. "Then what will happen to the captives?"

A dismissive motion of one long-clawed paw. "They'll be sold."

_"Sold!"_ Now it was Kiern's turn for outrage. "You said there'd be no slavery! That's what I told the captives, that's what I believed…you said they were for recruitment only!"

The angular head snaked about, a savage smirk slashing across the dark face. "Be ye questionin' me, lad?"

The stoat stiffened at the implied threat. "Sir…" A deep breath, marshalling strength. "You know I am loyal to you. I just wish to know why I have been made a liar."

"It were tae woodlanders, so it be noo matter." A shrug. "But I ken ye be honorable…an' so we'll get rid o' them someway else, if it makes ye happy." Fangs gleamed and Kiern's stomach twisted. "Release 'em, an' mayhap they'll starve or be taken into slavery. Or kill 'em naow."

Kiern's eyes closed for a long moment, turning the options over in his mind although he knew already what the best answer would be. "Then let it be slavery, sir," he said, and his voice was low and bitter. "I should never have doubted you."

A smile ghosted across Nightdeath's face. "Do noo be worryin' yeself o'er it." One paw reached out and clapped the captain on the shoulder in affirmation. "Naow, ye'd best be gettin' tae work…we march soon."

"Aye, chief." A sharp salute, and Kiern headed for his own tent, mouth pressed into a tight line.

The sun was halfway to its zenith by the time the Nighthunt set out on the march once more. Fourscore black-garbed soldiers in solid formation, heavy footfalls pounding the earth. At the fore marched the Nightclaws, arrayed about the towering form of the Longclaws. Behind strode the red-gloved Nightfangs, then the Nightarms with quivers hanging over their shoulders, and last skulked the red-fanged, red-clawed Nightblood.

If an observer stared very close at the surrounding trees and brush, they might glimpse shadowy figures ghosting silent along the Nighthunt. But it would have to be a sharp eyed watcher indeed to spot the majority of the Nighteyes unless they allowed themselves to be seen.

As Stormsong did, seeming to materialize next to Kiern like a gray ghost. "There be movement in the trees," he said, voice only loud enough to reach the stoat's keen ears.

Kiern managed not to look startled at the scout captain's sudden appearance, glancing instead to the windrustled treetops, to the Longclaws, and back to Stormsong. "Squirrels, you think?"

"Aye. An' they be near as silent as my scouts. We've no idea if they be watching or waiting te kill."

"I see…" Kiern looked to the trees once more. "Thank you."

A nod from the softspoken weasel, and then he melted into the undergrowth once more.

Nightdeath glanced over at his captain. "Woodlanders?" Spoken in a casual voice, but with a gleam in the ebon gaze.

"Likely… Stormsong's scouts saw something in the trees. Probably squirrels…"

Movement flickered, a red flash across the treetops at the corner of Kiern's eye, cutting off his words. He whirled, probed the concealing foliage with narrowed gaze.

_Creeeeeak…_

The straining sound of a bow drawn taut—Kiern burst into motion, leaping on the Longclaws, throwing the startled wolverine to the ground.

_Sss-thunk!_

Impact in his shoulder, burning pain— _"Stay down!"_ shouted to the tense wolverine as another arrow thudded into Kiern's back, as the air fled his lungs; body jerking with a third stabbing impact and then…

Blackness.


	13. Healing

**Vengeance Quest**

**Chapter 13:**** Healing**

"Any change?"

"Nay…none…"

"…Will he live?"

"I…do not know."

Voices weaving through his mind, trickling through the void, echoing into emptiness, and fading once more into the constant black.

Music…a waterfall of silver notes, each a tremor of sound gleaming like a short-lived firefly on the surface of consciousness, fading in and out, out and in.

In the silent times, he drifted deeper into the void, drawn inexorably inward by an unknown force. And he dissolved moment by moment, spreading outward like a thinning mist, losing the idea of self with each passing second of darkness…

…but every time, the music reached him through the void. Glimmers of light and sound, calling…

He was…he was… _something_…someone… not just an unthinking entity in the night destined only to release his tenuous hold on self and relax into _nothing._ There was – he couldn't quite grasp it. A memory, a thought…

_who am I_

The idea of identity… In his shattered mind, it was a difficult thing to grasp. And yet something within insisted it was urgent. Vital.

_I am_

and the music trickled on, whispering the answer in a language he didn't know, couldn't quite comprehend.

_Who am… I…am…_

kiern

It crashed through the fog of his being like a thunderclap, that one word, that one name, lightning flashing, illuminating for a brief instant…

…the music grew more clear. He could almost make out words…

_I am Kiern._

The thought repeated itself over and over in his mind and he began to draw himself together, pull himself into solidity against the tug of the void. And all the while the music echoed around him, through him, within him…whispering, singing, calling, and he listened close, followed its silver threads, wanting to know, needing to understand…

"Autumn's fire fell to brown  
With chill an' lonely winds  
An' still he stayed as leaves fell down  
To his love's prone form attend.

"No more come the grieving floods  
To weep o'er spilléd blood  
None to beg the silent Rhoan  
To return to life alone.  
So still he watches o'er his love  
Faithful remaining with his love.

"Ice to spring to fall again  
And still he waits till the world's end  
Till wind scattered Rhoan and his love  
To rest among the stars above.

So still he watches o'er his love  
Faithful remaining with his love."

Heavy lids cracked open—slowly, oh so slowly, weighed down with anchors of sleep, creaking with the rust of time. Fog crept across his vision and he blinked, an eternal effort, clearing his vision.

A gray form sat bent over the gleaming strings of a delicate lute, expert paws moving unerring across the polished wood, drawing forth cascades of notes.

_Who…?_

Mind blanking, and he grasped at long-unused memory, at last remembering.

"…Stormsong."

Voice creaking out, rusty from disuse, rasping against the silver of song.

The weasel's paw slipped on the strings, back stiffening, a jarring strum jangling through the air. He twisted about in his seat, stared with mouth slightly agape. "Kiern…! Thou'rt awake!"

"What…"

"Hush." Stormsong set his lute in its case with gentle care and rose, crossing to the cot where Kiern lay prone. He turned back the sheet, unbound a heavy bandage about the stoat's shoulder, frowned down at what he saw. "This wound…" Shaking his head, he turned away, retrieved a brown jar from a nearby trunk. "It hath proved troublesome…refusing to close."

Kiern turned his head slightly to watch Stormsong's actions, wincing as his neck crackled from even that small movement. "How long…have I been out…? The Longclaws—what happened…is he…?"

The muscle along Stormsong's jawline twitched, and there was a pause while he opened the jar and stirred the contents. "The Longclaws be unhurt," he said, "thanks be to thee. Skyfire hath taken over thine duties whilst thou recovers. T'was thought…t'was thought perhaps thou wouldst not awaken." The weasel crossed back to the cot, dipping a ceramic spoon in the jar and slathering it across Kiern's wound.

_"Hellsteeth…!"_ Fire lanced through the stoat's body and he stiffened, and that movement sent pain flaring from his other wounds—his back, his leg… Darkness misted over his sight but he fought it, teeth gritted against unconsciousness. _Can't…go back to that…_

He opened his eyes after an eternity, when the pain had subsided enough to think clearly, when the black fog finally cleared. Stormsong was binding a fresh bandage around Kiern's shoulder, jaw clenched as tight as the stoat's. He turned away once more after finishing. "Thine back and leg be healing more quickly…but thou shows pain when they be changed, too. I will change those wounds on the morrow." A pause, remembering. "Thou hast been unconscious…near to half a season."

_"Half a…"_ Shock burst from Kiern's lungs and died as the fire of it dissolved into coughing.

"Aye." The healer bent over his lute case, closing and latching it securely. "A few days past…the Longclaws…suggested letting thee die." Kiern couldn't quite see Stormsong's face, veiled as it was in shadow. "But I be the healer… and thou be awake now."

A long silence from Kiern as he finally recovered from coughing. "In my state…I was just dead weight. Still am…and the Longclaws knows I would prefer death to living sleep."

Muscles spasmed down Stormsong's arm to his curled fist. "Aye. But thou'rt awake now. So 'tis good I didst not let you die."

More silence. Then, "…what was that song you were singing, just a while ago?"

"Ah." A soft sad smile, barely visible in the dim light from outside as the healer moved to the door. "The Lay of Rhoan…it be a tragedy. An ancient song…" He nodded to Kiern, acknowledgement and farewell. "I must be leaving…Skyfire an' the Longclaws shall be wanting to know you've awakened."

"Wait…"

Stormsong paused beneath the tent flap, a lithe silhouette against the fires of the setting sun. "Aye, Kiern?"

"When the Longclaws said to let me die… did you truly think I would awaken?"

The weasel's paw tightened on the pole holding up the entrance and his head bowed. "…Nay. But I was not certain…an'…" A deep breath. "Skyfire shall be here soon."

The tent flap rustled with his passing, was lowered to block the sun, and Kiern stared up into the darkness, tangled in his thoughts.

"Kiern...?"

A familiar voice, soft and uncertain, pulling Kiern from his reverie. He turned his head and gaze to the tent entrance, slow and careful as every movement was stiff and aching. Barely had his eyes focused on the slender stoat before she drew in a sharp breath, reached his side in two swift strides, and threw her arms about his prone form.

"Kiern... seasons, I was so... I thought you... were going to--" and her voice choked on a dread sob "--die..."

He stiffened at her touch, stared at Skyfire's shaking body, at the back of her head on his bandaged chest. "Skyfire--what--" Shock blocked his throat and made it hard to force out words. He swallowed, managed to gather his composure. "Subcaptain."

The regained steel in Kiern's voice caused Starfire to stand immediately, face heating. "I--sorry, captain," she stammered. "I didn't mean--I'm sorry."

Kiern coughed, managed a nod. "I--understand, subcaptain." The barest hint of a smile, though inside confusion whirled. "You were concerned." _Never has she done a thing like that! What--_

"Concerned--" Skyfire stopped, swallowed her words. "Yes. Stormsong thought you'd never wake up. And the Longclaws--" Again she fell silent, bit down hard on her lower lip.

"Yes, subcaptain?"

His tone held the hint of command, and Skyfire drew in an unsteady breath, turned away with head bowed and paws clenched. "The Longclaws said to let you die. If it weren't for Stormsong..." She whirled on her captain, anger flaring red in brown eyes, paws curling tighter yet. "You saved his _life!_ And he was just going to let you _die!_ How--"

_"Subcaptain!_"

She glared but bit down on her lip again, turned away once more. Silence, and at last a grating _"Why?_"

"...He is my leader. It is my duty."

_"Duty!"_ Her fists shook, teeth grinding in the darkness of the infirmary tent. "Because he saved your life. But you've saved his more than once, and this time you almost gave your _own_ life for his! Haven't you repaid him _enough_?"

A long silence from Kiern, gaze shifting from the quivering stoat fem to the shadows of the tent ceiling. "I owe him more than my life," he said, voice quiet and steady. "He gave me a purpose. Command. Trust. Honor--"

"Honor?" That drew a sardonic laugh, and Kiern stared, shocked by the incongruity of that bitter sound from she who was normally anything but. "_He_ taught you honor?"

"...aye."

Another dry laugh. "You don't see it, do you, Kiern? He's molded you since he found you, hasn't he. Taught you honor, duty, loyalty--so that you'd defend him at all costs, so he could trust you. He _owns_ you. _He's_ never been honorable in all his--"

"_Enough!_" Kiern refused to hear it. Would not _listen_ to this ridiculousness. "You will _not_ speak like that of the Longclaws, _subcaptain_."

That brought her to face him, glaring, fists clenching open and closed and open again, helpless fury. "Sir."

A deep breath, dissolving into hacking coughs. "You are right... about one thing," he said once he regained control of his lungs. "The Longclaws does own me. He owns my life, my loyalty, my blade. And I will hear no ill of him."

A silent snarl from Skyfire; she shook her head. "No, you won't, will you? No matter how much you see and are told--you won't believe it. Won't hear it." She forced back a growl. "I'll obey your orders, captain. I'll speak nothing more of the Longclaws to you." A salute, sharp and yet somehow sarcastic, and she whirled out of the tent.

Kiern grimaced, forced his tense and aching body to relax, and tried his best not to think on Skyfire's angry words.

"Captain Kiern."

The commanding voice pulled Kiern from the depths of sleep with a groan as consciousness brought renewed awareness of half-healed wounds. Sleep-blurred eyes focused blearily on a tall figure whose dark fur blended into the dark of the tent--

_"Sir!"_

Gasped out in shock and Kiern tried to rise, bring up his paw for a salute, seized up in pain instead and collapsed back, coughing.

"At ease, captain." Was that concern in the wolverine's voice? "Do not wound yourself more."

Kiern gritted his teeth tight against the flaring pain from his shoulder, his back, his leg-- A deep breath to settle the coughs, and at last he regained his voice. "...yes sir."

The Longclaws stepped forward, intense gaze raking over Kiern's depleted form. "So. Stormsong was right in keeping you alive."

Another cough. "...Perhaps... but I'm afraid you may have to wait a while before I can be of service again..." Kiern shook his head a little. "Is Skyfire commanding the Nightclaws effectively?"

A nod from Nightdeath. "Aye. Not as well as you, but well enough." A pause. "I will be pleased when you are healed enough to command again."

"...I see." Kiern looked dubiously at his bandaged body. "And if I don't recover fully?"

Silence. Then, finally, "I hope you will have some use. Training younglings, perhaps." A dry chuckle at the horrified expression that transformed Kiern's face. "If not... you may always leave the Nighthunt."

"Truly?" Mild surprise colored Kiern's tone. "With as much as I know of the Nighthunt?"

White fangs gleamed in a thin smile, barely visible in the dim light. "You know what you would have to do in that case, captain." The Longclaw's paw dropped to Kiern's uninjured shoulder, applied a mild pressure that may have been reassurance and may have been warning--or both. "I do hope for your full recovery."

A farewell nod, and the Longclaws stepped out of the tent with silence grace. Kiern leaned his head back, exhaled a long tense breath, and let his troubled mind drift back into unconsciousness.

Gentle paws on his injured shoulder stirred Kiern to wakefulness, to flickering candlelight, to the sight of a grey head bent over his shoulder. Stormsong was cleaning the wound with a soft wet cloth, his gaze oddly tender.

Kiern's brow furrowed for a moment, confused, and then he broke the silence. "Is it healing?"

Stormsong started, glanced sideways at the stoat, back at the shoulder. "There be some infection… I think thee be over the worst of it, though." He wrung the cloth out over a bowl, submerged it in a second bowl, and returned the dripping cloth to Kiern's shoulder again, the damp cool against the inflamed wound.

"…Will it heal? Enough to return to my duties?"

The rare note of anxiety in Kiern's voice gave Stormsong pause; his gray gaze scrutinized the Nightclaws captain. "This be of much importance to thee?

A nod, edging on panic. "_Very_. I do _not_ want to work with younglings!"

That provoked a rare laugh from the weasel, musical as his speech, and a smile that momentarily banished the shadows from his face. "I think thou may recover—but it shall require much labor."

"Nothing wrong with that." Kiern shook his head. "It isn't sa if I'm unused to that."

Stormsong's smile quirked at one edge. "This be not the sort of labor thou'rt accustomed to, Kiern. It be tedious an' painful."

A shrug, then a wince as that motion burned over his shoulder. "Can't be worse than this."

Stormsong just shook his head with a knowing smile and began rewrapping Kiern's shoulder.

"That doesn't look difficult," Kiern said, dubious as he watched Stormsong's arms swing in gradually widening circles out from his sides.

Weeks had passed since that conversation in the infirmary tent, and Kiern had finally healed enough to limp outside to begin Stormsong's rehabilitation regimen.

That same secret grin flicked across Stormsong's face. "Then thou shall have no trouble, shall the? Try."

Kiern shrugged—he could finally do that without it hurting!—and lifted his arms straight out from his sides. "So… small circles, right…?" A nod from the Nighteyes captain and Kiern started moving his arms in forward circles. "Not hard…" _This is supposed to be labor?_

"Continue."

A resigned exhale from Kiern and he kept windmilling his arms. And gradually, incredibly, the muscles started to burn. His injured shoulder began its twinging complaint. _Why in the world…?_ It made no sense that his arm would hurt from _this!_

A puzzled, frustrated growl and Kiern continued windmilling, trying to work past the nonsensical pain, focusing more and more inward as his arms gained weight, turned to lead, as his shoulder became a constant fire spreading outward…

_"KIERN!"_

The shout broke through his concentration as a paw grabbed his wrists, forced them motionless. He blinked, gaze focusing on the concerned face inches from his own.

"…Stormsong?" Somehow confused, wondering at the worry in the gray gaze that verged on panic.

"I called thine name… told thee 'enough'—did ye not hear me?"

Kiern shook his head, slow and uncertain. "No… I heard nothing."

"Nothing!" Stormsong stared for a long moment, shook his head, then seemed to realize that he still held Kiern's wrists and he dropped them as if they were scalding brands, jumping back a length. "Thou…" He turned away, paced a few steps, stopped himself. "Kiern. Did that not hurt thee?"

Kiern looked down at his arms, shaking from exertion; at his shoulder, fluid oozing through the bandage, pain oozing across his torso. "…Aye… but that makes no sense! Something as little as that…"

"Nay." An exasperated sigh from the healer. "Thou hast not used thine muscles for a long while. They have turned weak, deteriorated, turned flaccid. An' now you push them too far; canst thou see thine shoulder is opened from the work?"

A slow nod. "Aye… but…"

"Everything in moderation, Kiern. Thou knowest this, aye?" Kiern nodded, and Stormsong continued. "I will give thee exercises such as this. Thou must do them as many times a day as I tell thee, an' only as many times as I tell thee. This… circle thine arms thirty times forward, thirty times back, twice a day. As for the others…"

Kiern listened closely to the bard as he explained and demonstrated the different exercises, finally settling down from his earlier agitation.

Days turned into weeks turned into months, with Kiern exercising regularly and Stormsong monitoring his progress. His wounds healed at last; his muscles began to strengthen; stiff scars began to relax and stretch with application of yet another of Stormsong's salves.

"How does it look?" Kiern asked, craning his neck to peer at his bared shoulder.

Stormsong's paw prodded at the healed-over wound. "Any pain?"

"None."

"Hm." Stormsong rested his paws on either side of the shoulder. "Lift your arm." Kiern obliged, muscles and bone shifting in response.

Footsteps sounded outside the tent, and a ginger-red head poked through the flap."Stormsong, have you found—oh, Kiern, didn't know ya were in here."

Kiern tensed beneath Stormsong's paws and Astarte's stare. "Darkmoon," he grated.

That usual seductive smirk crept across her face, and she let her smoldering gaze roam over Kiern's bare torso. "Looks like yer getting' fit again, hm?"

"What do you want?" Kiern asked, paw spasming into a fist.

"Oh, spare a little politeness, captain." Astarte flowed into the tent, never really taking her eyes off Kiern's half-bare form. "I haven't seen you in _ages_…" Her gaze flicked to Kiern's shoulder and the gray paws that still rested there, almost possessively. "Making progress, bard?"

The weasel bristled. "What meanest thou?"

Her smirk broadened, but she changed the subject. "Did y'find those herbs I asked for, Stormsong?"

He glared for a moment, paws tightening almost painfully on Kiern's shoulder before releasing. "Aye," he forced out, whirling to a trunk and pulling out a ceramic jar. He thrust it at Astarte, who took it with one paw and a knowing grin.

"Thanks, healer." The grin quirked up at one corner. "Best of luck."

The gray weasel glowered at the tent flap for several long moments after Astarte's exit, interrupted only by Kiern's hesitant touch on his shoulder.

"What was so bad about what she said?" the stoat asked, feeling all too in the dark. Wasn't she just asking about the progress with his recovery?

Stormsong scrutinized Kiern, finally shook his head with a sad smile. "…It be nothing, Kiern," he said, soft and regretful. "Nothing at all…"

Kiern hefted the wooden saber, tested its balance and weight. "This one ought to do," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"For thee... aye," Stormsong agreed after a moment. "But thou must take care..."

A grimace. "I know, I know. Not at my best form yet." He took a few testing swings with the practice sword. "I _feel_ fine."

"Thou may not feel as thou truly are, but thou'rt not fully fit. Thou may find thy body be weak an' slow."

Kiern shrugged. "We'll see, won't we?" He started toward the practice yard.

"Ah - Kiern..."

He stopped, shot a questioning look at the healer. "What is it?"

Stormsong motioned behind him, toward a grove of trees beyond the camp. "There be a clearing, yonder - Skyfire be waiting there."

"...and why not in the practice yard?"

A somewhat sheepish laugh. "Ah... well. Thou do not be in... excellent form, an'... well--thou needst thine command's respect, aye?"

Kiern stared at the weasel, who averted his gaze as if to deflect the expected outburst. "Are you saying that Skyfire might _defeat_ me?"

"Well..." That nervous laugh again. "It be possible..."

"She's _never_ bested me in practice!" Kiern burst out. "She's good, _very_ good, but--hellsteeth, Stormsong,do you really believe I've deteriorated that much?"

Stormsong swallowed, turned, and started for the grove. "'Tis better to be safe, wouldst thou not agree?"

"I--" Kiern let out a disbelieving exhalation, threw his hands in the air in surrender, and followed.

The clearing wasn't large, but it was large enough to spar in. Kiern's gaze narrowed as he realized it was empty. "Where's Skyfire?"

"Behind yon oak," Stormsong said, motioning to a large oak right next to them.

Skyfire stumbled into sight with a mock pout forming on her russet face. "Seasons, Stormsong--do you miss _anything_?"

He brushed that aside with a shrug, glanced at Kiern. "Be something wrong, Kiern?"

The stoat captain stood stiff and indignant, focused on Skyfire's practice sword. "It's _padded_," he managed at last, almost choking on the words.

"...aye," Stormsong said. "Thine body be not yet healed enough to withstand--"

"Right, right..." A growl, and Kiern and his wounded pride stalked to the clearing's center. "If I win this, Skyfire takes off the padding."

Skyfire and Stormsong exchanged glances, and Stormsong nodded very slightly. "Agreed."

Skyfire drew a deep breath, made her way to the deeply insulted Kiern. "We're just trying to be cautious..." she ventured.

"Just prepare yourself." Kiern drew into a fighting stance.

A soft sigh from Skyfire and she followed suit, usual awkwardness fading with the counterbalance of the padded rapier. A long silence, a salute from both stoats, and then they clashed. A flurry of blades, wood on cloth, testing and trying and then breaking apart. Skyfire frowned a little, swordpoint weaving like a cobra waiting to strike. Kiern's jaw tightened as he silently evaluated his body. _Slowed reactions... less power and motion... but I'm not going to lose this!_ A silent snarl and he went on the offensive, pressing hard, thrust and slice and feint, forcing Skyfire back several steps. _Have to end this quick before I tire out..._

Skyfire parried his thrust, batted aside the saber and closed in before Kiern could fully recover. He barely got his blade in place to block, thrown a bit off balance and onto the defensive. His shoulder twinged in protest and warning, and Kiern's visage grew grimer still. His efforts redoubled but he was tiring, his body unused to such stress after months of forced rest. Parry, block, thrust--

--and a sharp stab in his side, the padded blade crashing into his stomach hard enough to bruise. "Hellsteeth--" Kiern bit down on his words, backed away, forced a salute. "Well done," he managed, defeat bitter on his tongue.

Skyfire nodded and returned the salute. "You haven't lost your skills."

A wry grimace. "But my body isn't up to performing them." A sigh and he turned to Stormsong. "I'm--sorry," he said, forcing out the concession. "You--were right."

The weasel shrugged. "Well. 'Tis a matter of experience." He nodded to Kiern and Skyfire. "I be returning to mine command. Rest, and if thou wishest, spar more--but if thine wounds be hurting much, cease," Stormsong added, gaze levelled at Kiern. "Thou might make it worse, that way."

Kiern sighed and nodded. "Very well."

"Fare the well, then." A slight bow, and Stormsong melted into the forest like a wraith.

Silence, exceptfor the hesitant call of birds growing more and more confident with extended quiet. Kiern lowered himself to the ground, massaging his shoulder with one paw and his leg with the other. Skyfire plopped down next to him on the thick grass.

"Feeling all right?" Skyfire asked.

"Aye." Kiern stretched, reaching out to his toes, back to the tree he sat against, out to the side.

More silence, as the sun warmed their black-clad forms. "How fares the Nightclaws?"

"Not badly..." Skyfire frowned a little. "Some trouble with that one rat--Skenla--playing males off each other and so there's been a few fights..."

"Hm." Kiern plucked a blade of grass, twirled it in his paw. "Did you talk to her about it?"

"Not yet."

He nodded. "Send her to me when we're done--I should probably get back to managing my own command." A wry smile twisted across his face. "Any other difficulties?"

Skyfire shook her head. "No. Everything's pretty much normal, though I intensified the guard on the Longclaws after the attack."

"Good..." Kiern stretched again, pulled himself to his footpaws. "Another round?"

"You're sure you're up to it?" She grinned a little. "Stormsong would have my hide if I let you push yourself too hard."

He chuckled. "True. But I'm all right. Let's go." He slid into a fighting stance, and they clashed once more.

They sparred a few more times, Kiern's body protesting at the stress but slowly adjusting, and though he didn't win a match, he did come close. He left the grove satisfied with his progress despite his aching muscles.

The rat Skella entered his orderly tent not long after. Kiern spent a good deal of time delving into her story and then ordering her to cease from her games. She didn't seem too happy as she left--though that may have been due in part to his ignoring her flirtations and none-too-subtle attempts at manipulation.

After dealing with a few more matters of his command, catching up on changes and paperwork, he let out a long sigh, plugged closed the inkwell, and leaned back in his chair. He stretched his cramped paws, massaged his shoulder, and finally rose to his footpaws.

_Need some air..._ His stomach gurgled, and a wry smile flitted across his face. _And a meal!_

Kiern ducked through the tent flap and straightened, back crackling, casting his gaze to the reddening sky, the sun glowing soft on the horizon, day giving way to glimmering night. Letting his sight and soul take in the dark green of firs, velvet blue twilight, a scattering of stars, the first gleams of golden fireflies. A deep breath of cleansing air, and at last he headed for the mess tent, refreshed.

The sun had faded fuly by the time Kiern headed back to his tent, stomach bribed to silence. The Great Dipper and the Archer gazed down at him through a film of clouds, shimmering around the crescent frown of moon. The stoat paid little attention to his surroundings, gaze tilted to the stars as his footpaws carried him through the mess of tents and campfires and bedrolls.

"...about Kiern?"

His name spoken soft in familiar tones, jerked his attention to earth and reality. He glanced about, confused.

"I do not know..."

Stormsong's voice... and the earlier one had been Skyfire. _What...?_

He followed the voices to a tent--Stormsong's tent. His conscience tugged at him, tried to pull him towards his own tent. _Shouldn't listen in--_ but his curiosity was louder, and stronger, and anchored him next to Stormsong's tent.

"He's oblivious... and it's probably useless anyway..."

A soft laugh, sad and dry. "Aye. The Longclaws taught him many things... yet never much of love." Stormsong's musical voice.

"Except love for the Longclaws." Skyfire, sounding almost bitter.

"Aye. Aye..." A sigh. "I think there be no room in his heart to love more than one beast at a time. When he does something... or believes something... 'tis with all his heart."

"And the Longclaws raised and trained Kiern to be totally loyal to _him_." Skyfire growled, and then her anger faded to sadness. "And... that's the only kind of love he knows..."

A silence in the tent, and Kiern grew more and more uncomfortable, hackles lifting the slightest bit. _Is that really how they see me?_ and then the indignation twisted into discomforting introspection. _...are they right...?_

Latches clicked, and a rustling of cloth indicated motion. A few moments later, the silver notes of a lute trickled from the tent, a longing and troubled air edged with sadnses. Stormsong played uninterrupted for a time, until finally Skyfire's voice broke in over the gentle strains.

"Do you think... Is there any way I can..." She faltered, the music filling the silence, and then it all came out in a rush-- "show-Kiern-how-I-feel? About... him?"

Kiern stiffened in shock. _She... what... I..._ He pressed his paws to suddenly throbbing temples. _WHAT?!_

Stormsong's paws stumbled over the strings, a jarring chord cutting through the air before he could recover. The melody rseumed, shifted to a discomforting pondering air. "Thou... wouldst ask _me_ for advice on matters such as these?"

"...aye... You're one of the more--thoughtful beasts I know."

"Yet not experienced in matters of love."

A pause. "Not at all?"

"...well. There was one, once..."

"Once? ...What happened to her?"

The notes grew harsh, bitter, pained. "The one I loved--died. Killed for being...as we were." The music stopped, and Stormsong drew in a shaky breath. "Then... I found the Nighthunt."

"Stormsong..." Aching sympathy in Skyfire's voice. "I..."

Them usic resumed, cutting off her words, quick and cheery--froced cheer, painful cheer. Like the laugh of a deadbeast... "It matters not," Stormsong said. "It be past, now."

Silence, and the tension in the melody slowly faded out with its speed, settled into wandering contemplation. "Is there any that you care for now?"

A long rest in the song, the strings stilling to silence, then resuming, soft and sad. "...aye. One. Yet... it will never be."

"Why not...?"

A quiet sigh, barely audible through the thick tentcloth. "Because it can never be known... that I love that one. And that one shall never... _can_ never... love me..."

Kiern stepped away in silence, masked by the plaintive strains of Stormsong's lute. He'd heard enough... more than enough, and the opened hearts of the twobeasts in the tent was something he didn't feel he should be privaleged to see. To listen anymore--indeed, to have listened as much as he had--was something of a violation...

He let out a long exhalation as he made his way back to his own tent, the implications of what he'd just heard stewing uneasily in his mind.

Kiern woke to dawn with a heavy grown. He ached in places he didn't know had muscles, places he'd never known existed. Or had forgotten--there had to be a time when his limbs were this flaccid, when he was younger and untrained--but he couldn't recall ever feeling this sensation... this leaden ache...

A knock on the wooden tentpole. Kiern stifled another painful groan as he rolled out of his bedroll and pulled on his breeches. "Who is it?"

"Stormsong."

"Come on in," Kiern said, splashing water from a basin onto his tired face.

He turned to see the gray weasel holding a steaming mug, watching Kiern with a strangely intense look on his face, though he looked away when he realized Kiern was watching him watch Kiern. He thrust out the mug. "For thy muscles. T'will aid to dull thy pain."

For a moment, Kiern was tempted to deny any soreness, to refuse the offer of painkiller, but as he straightened from toweling off his face, his back and legs whined their burning protest. He took the mug. "Thank you," he said, grimacing as he brought it to his lips in expectation of bitter medicine.

But his browse rose as the sweet taste of honeyed tea met his tongue instead. "This is truly medicine?"

Stormsong nodded. "'Tis tea infused with herbs for the dulling of pain. T'will make thee tired, a little... Dost thou mind?"

"...No," Kiern said at last, after weighing the idea of mild sleepiness with the other option of leaden ache. "Not a bit." He sipped at the hot drink, letting its warmth seep through his bones. "I can still spar today?"

The weasel frowned, looked Kiern up and down, brow furrowing in thought. "...Nay. 'Tis best not to push thy body too far."

"When, then?"

A moment of thought. "Tomorrow, I believe. If all goes well, then thou shalt exercise thy bladeskills every other day."

"And what am I supposed to do till then?"

"Thou hath patterns thou practices, aye? With thy sword?" A nod from Kiern. "Then practice thine exercises. And care for thy command."

Kiern let out a long breath, drained the last of the herbal tea. He handed the empty mug to the healer. "Thank you," he said again.

Stormsong inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. "Fare thee well." A whisper of cloth as he ducked out of the tent, and Kiern turned to his pack for the remainder of his uniform.

Weeks crawled by, and slowly--too slowly for Kiern's impatience--his muscles reformed under a steady regimen of exercise, his reflexes sharpening, everything returning towards normal. Far from it as of yet, but... edging that way.

And now that he was watching for it, he noticed signs in Skyfire's actions and words of her feelings for him. In the way her gaze lingered, in how her face glowed at the sight of him, in the sidelong glances and the bit off sentences and the occasional sad wistful look.

Kiern didn't know how to react. Didn't know what he should do or _could_ do. How did one go about dealing with these sort of things? With Astarte it was easy--he simply rejected her too-blatant advances. But Skyfire... there was nothing _to_ reject. And... did he really _want_ to...?

_Yes,_ he told himself firmly. _Your job leaves no room for romance. It might be distracting. Might detract from my ability to protect the Longclaws._ Yet that niggling doubt persisted, and he walked through each day trying to make peace with the emotional battle within.


	14. Love and Loss

**Vengeance Quest**

**Chapter 14****: Love and Loss**

Time crawled on—hours to days to weeks, and slowly Kiern's life returned to normal. He began sparring with Skyfire daily, and soon began winning all their matches. He began sparring with others in the horde and winning all of those, too. He just hadn't resumed sparring with the Longclaws—not just yet.

As he headed back to his tent one morning, cool air drying the sweat from his fur, he noticed a strange tension in the horde, murmurs through the breezy air.

"Longclaws not looking too pleasant…"

"…death for somebeast…"

"…wonder what it is?"

Kiern's mouth pressed into a thin line and he quickened his pace. _An execution?_ He'd better get into his dress uniform, then… in case the rumors were true.

He ducked into his tent, tore off his sweaty marching clothes, dug into his pack for the carefully folded dress uniform, black crisper than night. He'd just pulled on his breeches when a whisper of cloth and air alerted him to somebeast's entrance.

Kiern turned to see Stormsong, gray face seeming grayer than normal, eyes holding a sort of desperation and despair. "Stormsong—" Kiern stared, concerned. "Are you—well?"

A harsh laugh from the gentle bard. "For the moment, Kiern… for the moment." He took a step closer. "I be needing to apologize to thee… because I be about to do something fair selfish."

Confusion crossed Kiern's face. "What—"

—but his words were stifled by another mouth on his, by arms wrapping around him, by a lithe body pressed against his own.

_What—_

He was too stunned to resist, too shocked to pull away, and before he could marshal his scattered senses to push Stormsong from him the weasel had released him, had stepped back with a sad soft smile.

"Fare the well… Kiern."

A whisper, achingly wistful, and Stormsong stepped back to the tent entrance.

"Farewell."

And he was gone.

Kiern stood frozen in time by stunned confusion, shock, incredulosity, staring blankly at the motionless tent flap. _What… just… happened…?_

He lost track of time's passage, unmoving, mind utterly blank. He didn't stir until Skyfire swept into the tent, gave him an odd look. "Kiern?"

He started, shook his head as if to clear it from its fog. "Yes?"

The stoat handed him a scroll. "From the Longclaws…"

"I see…" Kiern took it, broke the seal, read it quickly. "Seasons…" His knees dropped out from under him and he plopped on the cot, staring at the scroll.

Skyfire stepped closer, concern etched on her russet face. "What is it?"

He passed her the scroll. She read it, and a gasp hissed from her lungs. "Hellsteeth… he's executing _Stormsong? Why?_"

Kiern's mind flashed to Stormsong's strange actions not long before, and his stomach turned with sickening realization. "…I think I might know why…"

He stood, grabbed for the rest of his uniform. "Form up the Nightclaws," he said, sharp and brusque.

"…Yes sir," Skyfire said heavily, setting the crumpled scroll down and plodding out of the tent.

Kiern's mouth pressed into a tight line. He reached for his cloak, clasped it about his throat. _Stormsong… why did you do this?_ He looked down at the angry black lines raking across the parchment. His paw lashed out, grabbed the paper, crunched it into a ball of smearing ink, threw it against the tent canvas with a growl.

He glared at the crumpled ball for a long moment before his shoulders slumped. A long sigh; he straightened, turned, and slipped out of the tent.

Kiern met the Longclaws before the wolverine's tent in silence, flanked him with the three tent guards. Their chief stalked, wordless and tightlipped, to the parade grounds. Kiern and the guards followed close behind, having to half-run to keep up with the wolverine's long strides.

They stopped before the entire horde standing in stiff formation, and the Longclaws stepped forward. "Bring him out," he commanded, and his voice was colder than northland ice.

A rat in Nighteye greens and a ferret in the red gloves of the Nightfangs stepped out of a tent, dragging a bound and beaten Stormsong between them. Kiern stiffened at the Longclaws side at the sight of empty gray eyes and bleeding jaw.

_Hellsteeth…_

"There is much that I tolerate," Nightdeath began, dark gaze piercing through the horde. "Whoring. Dueling. Plundering. And if none care for life here, they are always free to leave."

Silence, and Stormsong and his two "escorts" stopped just behind the Longclaws. The weasel stood like some soulless being, devoid of hope and life and light. The Longclaws didn't turn, didn't deign to glare at the beaten healer, only let his intense stare rake across the ranks.

"But there is one thing that I will _never_ accept within my ranks," he said, voice growing colder still. "And that is the unnatural, disgusting, abhorrent desire of a beast for those of his own sex!" Murmurs rippled through the stunned horde as he whirled, struck Stormsong on the cheek with an open paw, leaving four parallel lines of red.

"This—_thing_," he spat, loathing thick in every syllable, "I trusted with captaincy, with the tending of my own wounds, with the healing of my guard captain! Never knowing that he cares _nothing_ for females.. but that he lusts for _other males!_"

The murmurs grew in volume, disgust rippling across the faces of many, repulsion and anger buzzing through the air.

"This male-lover," the Longclaws proclaimed, each word like the death-knell of Dark Forest's solemn bells, "will be chained to a tree until morning. Anybeast in the horde may do anything they wish—_anything_ they wish—as long as he is not killed." The murmurs rose to drowning chatter slithering from sadistic grins, but quieted when Nightdeath lifted a clawed paw. "His death," he said, fangs flashing in a feral sort of grin, "is for _me_ to deal."

He turned to the rat on Stormsong's right. "You, Sharsek—for telling me of your captain's abomination, you shall be captain of the Nighteyes." The rat straightened and grinned in ferocious pleasure. "Now—chain him," Nightdeath said. "And do as you will."

The Longclaws swept away with darkly graceful strides, and it took the stunned and sickened Kiern a few seconds before he managed to remember to signal four Nightclaws to follow and guard the chief. He turned back as they left, staring numb at the scene before him—a mob of laughing, jeering Nighthunt flocking behind the rat and ferret dragging a stumbling Stormsong to a stout oak. _No… this is…_

He twisted around. The well-trained Nightclaws remained in formation, watching him, waiting for a command. He closed his paw into a fist, drew in a deep breath. "Do not join in on torturing Stormsong," he said, quiet and firm. "We are above that." No dissent from the Nightclaws. Kiern nodded, sharp and painful. "Dismissed."

As the Nightclaws dispersed in silence, Skyfire made her way to Kiern's side, shaking all the while. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge her presence, just stood stiff and silent, gaze fixed on the jeering crowd helping with vicious enthusiasm to chain Stormsong's arms to the tree, spread-eagled, helpless.

"Filthy male-lover," a stoat snarled, spitting on Stormsong in disgust. The weasel didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't react; just stared into nothing with empty eyes.

A hiss of air sounded from Skyfire. "How can you… just _stand_ here?" Anguish and anger gripped her quiet voice, ripping into Kiern like a barbed whip.

"I have to," he managed at last through teeth clenched against his revulsion. "I owe him… this much." A shaky breath, paws clenching into fists so tight that his claws pierced calloused pads. "I owe him… my life…"

"Then _help_ him!" She almost shouted it, whirling on her captain. "For seasons' sake, do _something!_" He didn't move. "_Anything!_"

Stormsong's tormenters were growing frustrated with the continued lack of reaction from their prey. Finally the newly appointed Nighteyes captain barked something, disappeared into the cluster of tents. Cruel laughter rippled through the ranks when he returned, holding aloft a strangely shaped object—

_Stormsong's lute case,_ Kiern realized with a shock.

"Oh, no…" An anguished moan from Skyfire. "Kiern… you value honor—how can you condone this?!"

He flinched under the lash of her words, and his answer came in an agonized whisper. "There is… nothing I can _do_…"

The rat unlatched the case, kicked it open with rough disdain. He pulled out the delicate instrument with a sneer, said something to the mob, who responded with laughter. The rat struck a mock musical pose, holding the lute awkwardly, and raked his claws across the strings.

The jangling noise drew a wince from Kiern and a stare from Stormsong. The weasel's head lifted, gaze focusing on the lute as the rat strummed it again. The silvery strings seemed to cry in pain from the mishandling.

"No…" A hoarse plea from the healer bard, a laugh from the mob. Another clanging chord, the rat's claws scarring the intricate designs.

"What's wrong, cap'n?" he asked, smirking and drawing another cry from the lute, a flinch from Stormsong. "It's just a bit of wood…"

"No…" This from Skyfire. "Stop them… this is _wrong_…"

As if an echo, Stormsong rasped out "stop…", tortured and pleading, but that just urged the mob on.

"Just a little piece of wood." The rat winked broadly at his sniggering audience, and he raised the lute above his head.

_"NO—"_

—but Stormsong's cry was futile, and the precious instrument smashed to the ground with a last agonized chord clashing at the soul.

"What a fool," the rat said, glowing in the shadow of Stormsong's broken stare. "You'd think the silly thing was his life or somethin'."

Stormsong just stared at the shattered wood and curled strings at his feet. What had once been his soul's sole voice… now as broken as his life. He sagged in his chains, the agonizing despair in his haggard face striking Kiern's like the arrows Stormsong had healed him from not months before.

"I can't…"

The broken sob drew his gaze to Skyfire, her face buried in her paws. "I can't watch… No more…"

Kiern nodded, gaze softening in silent understanding, but she didn't see him. She whirled away, took off at a staggering run for her tent, fleeing from the sneering laughter and Stormsong's pain.

He watched her for but a few moments before forcing his attention back to Stormsong. _I owe him this much… to watch to the end…_

The rat kicked a fragment of lute away. "I'm done here," he declared, and grinned at the rest of the mob. "Have fun."

Kiern tensed as the rat passed by not a length away, and his paw clenched spasmodically on his sword hilt. But he forced himself to inaction, forced his shaking fists to remain at his side. _Bastard…!_

"'Ey, I've got an idea…" A snicker from a ferret, and he gave a weasel fem a little push. "Show 'im wot 'e's missin' by hatin' fems!"

Cruel laughter from the mob, and Stormsong went rigid. Kiern's fists clenched tighter yet, jaw grinding so as to nearly drown out the taunts and encouragement. _Hellsteeth… no…_

Three buxom fems stepped forward, all sneering seduction—a weasel, a rat, a vixen. Kiern's mouth twisted into a bitter line that could almost be mistaken for a smile. _Would almost expect Darkmoon there…_

The three approached the tense Stormsong slowly, tittering, smiling, teasing. They brushed against him, pressed against him, paws wandering over and under torn clothing as Stormsong struggled helplessly. The weasel fem kissed him soundly, slipped her tongue into his mouth, pressed her body tight to his—

Kiern winced as he heard a keening, a sort of whimpering, as he realized it was coming from Stormsong's throat—part cry, part scream, pure tortured humiliation. _This… has to stop…_ But he remained rooted to the spot, wanting to look away, forcing himself to keep watch.

A racous laugh from a big dogfox; he stepped up to Stormsong, placed a paw on the vixen wrapped around the shaking weasel. "'Ere… if th' sick fool likes males so much, I'll give 'im a taste of what _real_ males are like!"

The vixen grinned and stepped away along with the other two fems, leaving room for the tod to have his fun. Stormsong's tortured stare turned wild, panicked, darted over the crowd to lock with Kiern's gaze. _Help me…_ his eyes begged, and his mouth moved in silence. Kiern, shaking with rage and revulsion at the goings-on at the oak, focused on the weasel's lips, tried to interpret the message.

_…kill me…_

…let me die…

Then Stormsong's gaze was ripped away as the dogfox slammed a fist across his face, laughed at the cry that escaped the weasel. "Ya sick perversion…" the tod hissed. "Ya want males? Well, _'ere's_ a bit a fun for yew!"

His claws tore into Stormsong's breeches and thigh and he _pulled_, skin and blood and cloth ripping away, leaving the healer's lithe body exposed to stares and laughter and cruel touches.

By this time day had given way to grey dusk and gathering clouds; Kiern could barely see the scene until somebeasts thought to light torches in time for Kiern to see the tod drop his breeches, step close behind Stormsong…

Kiern flinched, could not keep watching as the weasel's screams ripped through the air like his smashed lute's dying chord. Kiern's eyes squeezed as tightly closed as his jaw and fists, each agonized soul-shattering scream shredding at his clenching chest. Blood trickled down his punctured paw-pads but he didn't notice, barely felt the pain, drowned out as it was by Stormsong's…

The screams died away at last, at last, at too long last. Kiern's eyes opened to a sobbing Stormsong, sagging in his bonds, bleeding… to a smirking dogfox belting up his breeches… to a taunting mob high on pain and drunk on blood.

"An' who'll be next?" the dogfox shouted, tongue lolling with exertion and sated sadism.

Stillness for a moment, and then a muscular stoat in Nightarm armguards stepped forward for his turn. Kiern closed his eyes in shared agony, sympathetic pain, as metal jingled and laughter rasped cruel in the blood-tainted air.

_SS-THUNK!_

A sharp gasp; Kiern's eyes snapped open to see an arrow buried in Stormsong's arched back. The weasel coughed, blood staining his mouth, eyes beginning to glaze over. His head turned, painfully slow, in Kiern's direction; his eyes locked with Kiern's.

_Fare… well…_ his lips formed… and then his last life's breath gurgled out of blood-filled lungs, and he slumped in his chains to never stir again.

A rare sob wrenched from Kiern's throat, relief and pain and grief all rolled into one. _It's… over…_

His knees buckled; he grabbed for something to keep him upright and his paw found soft fur and a firm shoulder. Kiern blinked, turn to see who it was, and his gaze met russet fur and red gloves.

_Darkmoon…?_

She was staring at Stormsong's body, at the cursing mob beginning to disperse, her jaw tightly clenched. "He… deserved none of that," she said at last.

Kiern's paw fell to his side; he managed to remain standing on his own, incredulous gaze fixed on Astarte's iron face. "Did you…?"

A thin mockery of a smile. "It was an arrow that killed him. Likely one of the Nightarms, dontcha think?"

Kiern just stared. _She killed Stormsong? _Astarte_ showed this mercy?_

She was waiting for his answer. He shook off the shock, forced out words. "…Aye. A Nightarm…"

"Guess we'll never find out who."

"…Nay."

"Didn't think so." That almost smile again, and Astarte inclined her head in farewell before turning. "Oh—captain."

He glanced her way. "Aye?"

"The Longclaws wishes to see you."

A deep intake of breath. "Very well," he said as Astarte slinked away into the slumbering shadows of tents. Kiern pulled his scattered wits together with an effort, pushed the storm of clashing emotion to the back of his consciousness, straightened his uniform. "Very well," he muttered again, and headed to the Longclaws' tent with dread twisting at his chest.

"Sir—'tis Captain Kiern," a black-caped guard said as Kiern approached the tent.

"Let him in," came the frigid reply.

Kiern ducked into the tent, eyes adjusting to the dim light to see the Longclaws standing with his back to the entrance, still and foreboding.

"…you wished to see me, sir?"

Silence for a long, tense moment. "You know the object of Stormsong's lust was you?"

He flinched, remembering the weasel's embrace. "…I guessed as much, sir."

A slight nod. "How long has it been since you were with a fem?"

"…several seasons."

He watched the Longclaws' dark hackles lift ever so slightly. "You have never shown much interest in fems. Why?"

Kiern stiffened. _He thinks I'm…?! _"I did not want to be distracted from my duties, sir."

A flash of gleaming fangs. "Ah, captain… ever the dutiful soldier." Kiern relaxed the slightest bit as his leader's flat tones turned more humored, as Nightdeath finally turned to face him. "Your body never burns with lust? Does that noo detract from yer performance?"

Kiern frowned. "I'd never thought of that…"

"There be plenty o' fems for th' takin'—few'd be refusin' ye."

"…Perhaps."

The Longclaws smiled a little, sat at the trunk that served as a desk, shuffled through a few papers. Kiern cleared his throat in the silence. "Sir… I would ask… why it was that you executed Stormsong in—such a manner."

A snarl. "If nobeast'd shot him, t'would be a far more fittin' death."

"Nay… I meant…" Kiern drew a deep breath. It was always risky to disagree with Nightdeath… "Stormsong had been faithful to you. The only healer you could readily trust to not—poison you."

"_Trust._" The wolverine spat on the ground. "That _thing_ had _touched_ me… to heal, I thought, ne'er knowin' that 'e were—as 'e was! _Filth._ Worse'n any woodlander, lower than th' lowest o' mice!"

"Sir—"

_"Silence!"_

Kiern's jaw clacked shut beneath the Longclaws' glare. The wolverine snarled, turned away, tail lashing, ears pinned back flat against his skull. At last he stilled, anger still showing in every tense line. "You will take a fem to your bed tonight," he said, biting off every word. "One of your own kind. And you will do so every week possible—to prove to me that you are not like Stormsong."

Kiern's own tail twitched at that—but he had no choice but to obey. He forced submission into his voice. "Who might you suggest, sir?"

A shrug from the Longclaws, slight and tense. "Astarte's been chasing after you, has she not? Or perhaps that subcaptain of yours. Skyfire. She's pretty enough, and she seems taken with you."

Kiern forced his face to remain blank. "Aye, sir."

"Dismissed."

He gave a sharp salute to the wolverine's turned back, spun on one heel, and stalked out of the tent.

To Astarte's.

His entrance into the Nightfangs' circle of tents and bedrolls was met with open stares and wondering whispers.

"The Nightclaws captain?"

"…what's he doin'…"

"…_never_ comes here…"

Kiern's ears flicked back, tail twitching a little. He ignored the murmurs, making his way without pause to Astarte's tent. A red-gloved weasel at the entrance moved to stop him.

"Tell your subcaptain that Kiern is here to—speak with her," Kiern ordered.

The weasel's eyes widened, but he obeyed, poking his head into the tent. "Captain—it's—the Nightclaws captain…"

"…Let him in."

A surge of whispers from the staring Nightfangs, like the buzzing of excited bees. Kiern grimaced and ducked into the tent.

It was… strangely decorated. Furs and blankets piled into what looked like a comfortable nest in the middle of the tent. A finely worked saber gleamed atop carefully folded breeches and crimson gloves. Herbs and medicines rested in an open chest, in front of which stood Astarte, downing something with a swig of water.

She turned to face him, and Kiern noticed with some discomfort that she wore only her tailored tunic. Dark eyes studied him for a long, long moment. "So…" she said at last. "What brings th' stoic captain of th' guard to my tent?"

He averted his gaze to her sword and gloves in the tent corner. "Orders from the Longclaws," he answered.

"Ah." She nodded. "To prove yer not like Stormsong."

"…Aye."

Another long scrutiny. "Why not yer little subcaptain?"

His jaw clenched. "Because she—cares for me. And an emotional relationship… would be distracting. And she is under my command. We work well together; I don't wish to harm that."

"I see." A wry smile ghosted across Astarte4's face. "I, on the other paw… am safe?"

Kiern turned to face her, brow creased in a puzzled frown. "…Aye. In that sense."

She nodded and sat in the mass of blankets and furs. "…I'm sorry about Stormsong."

"Are you? I would have thought you'd be one of the fems tormenting him."

Her eyes narrowed at his words and bitter tone "You don't know me at all."

Kiern laughed. "I know you are a seductress, open for any and all."

"Perhaps. But—I am not fond of rape," she said, anger sparking in her voice. "I respected Stormsong and his—preferences. He did _not_ deserve that. _Any_ of it."

"And yet your subcaptain…"

It was her turn to laugh then. "Woodlanders! They don't count."

Kiern's ears flicked back. "They do not?"

"No." She took in his troubled expression and let out a quiet sigh. "If you let yerself see th' enemy as bein' like you… you can't kill 'em. Not easily. Ya know?"

Kiern looked away, not wanting to admit that truth. But it _was_ truth… "Aye. I know."

Cloth rustled with her movement; he stiffened at the touch of gentle paws on his shoulder. "Do not—"

"—Kiern." Something in her voice silenced his protest, and he stood tense beneath her touch. "How can you obey the Longclaws if you won't even let me touch you?"

Kiern was rescued from having to answer by angry shouts outside and then a black fox burst into the tent.

_"Astarte!_" the tod growled. "What is _this?_"

She draped her armso ver Kiern's shoulders, and Kiern tensed further at the extended touch and at the rage flaring in Veneno's glare. "Kiern's come for a little fun," she said with her usual seductive laughter.

Fury choked from the tod in a strangled snarl. "You would cheat Death?"

Her eyes rolled skyward. "Was fun while it lasted, Ven—but _really_. Yer not right in the head, ya know? You may be an assassin, but yer not Death itself."

_"Lies!_"

Kiern's sword flashed from its sheath in an instant, met the fox's scythe before it could touch him or Astarte. With his free paw, Kiern grabbed hold of the scythe's haft, letting the full force of his disgust for the delusional tod spark in his eyes and growl in his voice. "Get out."

"Death is not commanded by the likes of—"

_"Get out._" Kiern's paw tightened on the scythe's haft. "Or would you spar with _me_?"

Veneno tensed, glared for a long moment before pulling himself together, putting on a superior air. "This will not be forgotten. Death comes for allbeasts!"

He whirled, ignoring Kiern and Astarte's disgusted stares, and stalked out of the tent flap with overly flamboyant flair.

"Idiot," Astarte muttered, and stepped outside of the tent. "I want double guard on my tent. Have somebeast follow Veneno and make sure he's not up to anything stupid."

She stepped back in and flashed a grin at Kiern. "Thanks for protecting me, captain."

Kiern sheathed his sword with a snarl. "Wasn't about protecting anyone." He turned to face her. "Let's get this over with."

Astarte looked at him with something akin to sadness deep within her gaze. "…No."

"What? I thought—"

She stepped closer to him, silenced him with a long kiss. "We are not going to just 'get this over with,'" she said huskily. "I've waited this long to have you… and I'm going to enjoy it." At the anger that flashed across his face, she smiled a little, soft and sad and totally unlike her usual seductive self. "You have to do it anyway… so why not let yerself enjoy it, too?"

He tensed, forced back a growl, forced himself to let his mind slide blank. "…Perhaps…"

Astarte shook her head and led him to her nest of furs and blankets. "Just… relax…"

The next day, Nightdeath gave the orders to move out. Kiern packed his tent and his few possessions, pulled on his everyday uniform, tossed his things in the cart. He started to head to his command, trying not to look long at Stormsong's mangled corpse next to the oak where he'd been tortured the night before.

"Kiern."

Skyfire's voice behind him. He turned. "Aye?"

Her eyes were puffy, reddened, as if she'd been crying; her tunic was rumpled, her tail drooping. "…Last night… you were with—Darkmoon." She choked on the name. "Why?"

A long deep breath. "The Longclaws ordered me to sleep with a stoat fem—"

"What am I??" she burst out. "I'm female! I'm a stoat! And I—" She stopped, blinked back a rage of tears. "I…_love you…_"

Kiern flinched at that, turned away. "…and that's exactly why…"

Skyfire stared. "What…?"

"…You care for me. Too much. I—am your captain. I can't be more… than that. Not without hurting how we work together—"

A long silence from the stoat; Kiern finally turned to see what was wrong. Her gaze fixed on the ground, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "This… has ruined that," she said at last, brokenly. "Kiern… I can't… stay here, anymore. Not after this… and Stormsong… and…" A shuddering breath. "And seeing you—compromising your honor… over and over… You're turning cold. And I don't want—to see you turn into—Nightdeath Longclaws…" The words ended in a gasping sob, and she whirled away from him.

Kiern shifted uncomfortably. "Ask the Longclaws—to let you go, then…"

"I'm a subcaptain. He… wouldn't let me go. Not alive…"

A long, deep breath. "…You're probably right… Then…" He found his own eyes stinging with moisture; angrily, he forced them dry with blinking. "Leave. Slip away when we're on the march."

Her shoulders shook with sobs. "Kiern…"

He could stay aloof no longer. A few quick strides and he wrapped his arms around her, held her close. She turned to face him, sobbed into his chest. "Kiern… I… I'll miss you…"

Kiern closed his eyes and spoke the truth. "I will miss you too…"

He finally released her; she stepped back and wiped her eyes dry. "I'll come back here. Bury Stormsong…"

A nod. "Thank you…"

She drew in a deep cleansing breath. "I won't be able to tell you—when I leave. So—goodbye… Kiern…"

His eyes closed against the pain. "…Farewell, Skyfire."

Silent in shared grief and understanding, the two stoats let their expressions blank, straightened rumpled uniforms, and marched back to their command together—for the last time.


	15. Tracking

Vengeance Quest Chapter 15: Inner Struggles 

A late spring breeze soared up to touch the sun, dove to tickle forest leaves and bird feathers. Then around a thick trunk, whispering to a sapling of the gossip of pines, dancing onward to scatter last autumn's leaves across the ground and into a squirrelmaid's fiery brush.

She flicked her tail almost unconsciously to free it of debris, keeping her dark gaze focused on the ground and its cryptic code. After a long moment she shook her head, looked up at the waiting older squirrel. "I dunno…"

The other's rust-gold brush flicked in silent disapproval. "Take a guess, Malaya."

A sigh and the squirrelmaid returned her attention to the scattering of leafmold. Another long silence, and then she lifted a paw. "That way?"

"Why?"

"Um… 'cos there's shiny leaves that way? An'… mebe it's easier. Not so much brush'n stuff?"

The faintest hint of a smile crossed the other squirrel's scarred visage. "Good. A tired traveler usually takes the easiest path—almost anybeast will, really." She bent to pick up a dull dead leaf. "The top side of leaves are usually dull… all that dust and sun. But the other side, on damp earth…" She turned the leaf over to expose its almost shiny underside.

"So…" Malaya's brow furrowed. "If th' shiny side's up, it means somethin's turned it over? Like… somebeast walkin' over it?"

Riala nodded. "And… when somebeast walks through dense woods like these, they can't really keep from breaking twigs, or cloth snagging." She led Malaya onward, pointing out a rash of broken twigs here, a fallen green leaf there, a bit of flame-red fur over there.

They continued onward, Malaya working on tracking with Riala suggesting and guiding and supervising. By the time they stopped for the night, the squirrelmaid's back was sore, her eyes strained and tired, unused to such intense concentration on tiny clues and little details.

"You choose the camp, Aya."

Malaya nodded, scampering ahead to search for a likelyl area. Riala followed at a slower pace, gold-brown gaze taking in every whisper of leaves and birdsong.

"Here looks good-like," Malaya said, flopping on her back in a small clearing.

Riala toed the squirrelmaid's ribs, and Malaya jerked away in giggling helplessness. "No sleeping yet, Aya," the older squirrel said, suppressing a smile. "Set up camp."

A long-suffering sigh and Malaya climbed to her footpaws as Riala sat, watching with as little expression as possible. Malaya gathered up sticks and mossy kindling, scraped an area free of grass, took flint and a bar of steel, shot sparks into the bed of kindling until it caught.

With the nest of wood coaxed into burning flame, Malaya returned to her fallen pack, stretched out a bedroll and pulled out a leaf-wrapped package. She unwrapped it to the scent of cinnamon, and offered one of the three oatcakes to Riala.

Riala shook her head. "Nay. I've my own food." She pulled a pawful of acorns from her belt pouch, cracked them open to munch.

"But… ain't oatcakes better'n those?"

The slightest hint of a smile touched sad wings to Riala's face. "Aye… but those are yours. And—they're from Redwall."

Malaya frowned a little, shook her head after a moment, and polished off the top oatcake. "So… who's takin' first watch?"

"You choose."

The squirrelmaid grumbled something about training and replaced the bundle in her haversack. "Guess I'll do it…" She strung her short bow, set her rapier at her side, and turned her back to the fire's warmth.

Riala watched her for several long minutes, until the day's last fires faded in the west, and the crescent moon peered down from its bed of stars, and birds settled to sleep with tired chirrs. Finally Riala allowed herself to stretch out before the fire, close her eyes, and drift into a light sleep.

Something woke her, later in the night—instinct, or a sound, or the sense of approaching danger… she didn't know. But long experience and not a few costly mistakes had taught her to trust her instincts. Riala rose on silent footpaws, crept around Malaya, shook her head at the sight of closed eyes and the sound of soft snores. _Silly youngling,_ she thought as she ghosted up a tree to watch and wait.

She did not have to wait long. Footpaws crunched through the undergrowth, drawn to the tiny fire's glow. Soft whispers hissed to Riala's keen ears, hinting at attempts at stealth, but the crackle of twigs and the rustle of leaves and the stink of mustelid was as loud to Riala's trained hearing as the roar of a berserking badger lord.

Two ferrets emerged from the woods, scruffy and sinister, paws gripping crude blades. A soft snickering rasped from the shorter one's throat as he crept behind Malaya, placed his longknife to her pale neck.

"Well naow… ain't this a purty 'un?"

The touch of cold steel and the harsh voice pulled Malaya to consciousness in an instant. She stiffened, stared at the blade. "What—"

"Wot d'ye think we should do t' 'er, Skinflik?" The smaller ferret asked with a leer.

Malaya's face grew grim and still, and before the other beast could answer, she jerked sideways, away form the longknife, rolled as the ferret stumbled forward. She leapt to her footpaws, snatched up her rapier, crouched with the shimmering blade weaving from ferret to ferret.

They laughed at the sight of the slight squirrelmaid, ignoring or perhaps not noticing the grimness in her dark gaze. The taller ferret brushed by his companion, saber swinging in mocking disdain.

"I'll take 'er," he said, and tapped his blade to Malaya's with a grin. "C'mon, girly. On gurd an' all."

"En guard, ya mean," Malaya muttered, and attacked.

She held her own well enough against the ferret, blade clanging on blade, thrusting and parrying, forward and back. But Riala could see from her perch that while Malaya was going all out, the older ferret was not.

"Enougha this," the ferret said with a sneer, and his footpaw swiped at earth, at the ashes and embers of the dying fire.

Riala was there in an instant, arm shielding her eyes as ash and dust and embers hissed against her fur. Before the ferret could react, her dagger slammed up through his stomach to pierce his lung.

She whirled as the other ferret charged in, longknife hissing through the air. Her roce caught the blade in its hard wood and her footpaw lashed up, slammed into his stomach. The ferret doubled over, wheezing, and Riala twisted with her roce, snatched up his longknife, moved in for the kill—

_"No!"_

Malaya's voice, and Riala stopped with the blade at the ferret's throat. He froze too, going nearly cross-eyed in trying to stare at the longknife.

"What is it, Aya?" Riala growled, glare unwavering from the ferret.

Pawsteps sounded behind her, Malaya walking to her side. "Don't kill 'im…"

Only long discipline kept Riala from turning to stare at Malaya in disbelief. "Don't kill him?! Do you have any idea what he was going to _do_ to you?" Her paw clenched on the longknife in shaking fury and the blade drew a dot of blood from the whimpering ferret.

Silence from the younger squirrel, and then, "…aye. I guessed, anyhow."

"Then why shouldn't he die?!"

"…don't he deserve another chance? I mean… maybe he won't change, but ya never know. It's happened."

Riala snorted. "You've got a lot to learn, Aya." She pushed the ferret slowly backwards. "Scum like this _never_ change." He was forced to stop, back pressed against a tree. "You'll see."

"But… ya won't kill 'im?"

Riala's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Nay. Not now…" A pause. "Do you have any rope in that pack of yours?"

"Yep…" Rustling cloth as Malaya scampered to the fireside and her fallen haversack, and she returned seconds later with a length of rope. "Tie 'im up?"

A sharp nod from Riala. "And make it tight. Don't want him getting away."

Minutes later, the ferret was bound tight, glaring at the two squirrels. "Not gonna get away wi' this…"

"Really." Riala glanced at Malaya. "You sure you don't want me to kill him?" Malaya nodded. Riala sighed and hefted the longknife, flung it into a distant tree, returned her gaze to the ferret. "Now… if I hear so much as a sneeze from you, that knife'll be buried in your heart, no matter what the squirrelmaid says. Understand?"

The ferret scowled, opened his mouth to reply, but Riala's gimlet gaze gave him pause. He nodded.

"Good."

Riala turned back to Malaya, who was watching with an unreadable expression. "Lead the way."

The squirrelmaid studied her mentor for a long moment, then shook her head with a soft sigh and trudged to the clearing's edge and the resumption of the trail.

They made decent time, Malaya's tracking skills improving with steady use throughout the day. And as night fell once more, Riala watched her charge set up camp, this time in a more sheltered glade. No fire, this time; Riala nodded in silent approval at that. "First watch?"

Malaya winced. "Arentcha worried I might sleep?"

Riala's mouth thinned into a smile. "I think you learned your lesson there."

"Aheh…" Malaya smiled crookedly and laid her rapier across her legs. "Right…"

Riala leaned her back against a wide oak, took her dagger out to sharpen. A pause as her gaze fell on Malaya's blade, and she blinked. "That rapier… it's not the one I gave you."

The squirrelmaid blinked in return, looked down at the finely wrought sword. "Oh—Brook said I's a Wanderer now, an' need a good sword. So she tol' me to pick from th' armory."

"I see…" Riala's brow furrowed, studying the rapier. "I think… that blade…" Her eyes flew open wide. "Aye—it belonged to that stoat!"

Malay stiffened a little. "…th' one ya tortured…?" A sharp nod from Riala. "…Oh." The squirrelmaid lifted the rapier, studied it closely. She ran a paw across the shimmering blade, over the etchings of stars and flames and lunar phases. "Oh! There's something written…" She lifted the sword, peered close at the blade near where it met the basket hilt. "Skyfire? Th' stoat's name, mebbe…?"

Riala winced. "Maybe. Or not. I don't want to know."

"…why not?"

"Because…" She raked the whetstone over the dagger almost viciously, jaws clenching. "I can't…" A deep breath. "She was one of the Nighthunt. Vermin. Evil. I hate her. I _have_ to hate her."

"Oh… Riala…"

Riala snarled at the pity and sympathy in the younger squirrel's voice. "I don't need pity," she growled. "This is how you survive. You _can't_ let yourself see your enemy as being like you, because… then you can't kill them. Not easily…"

"But…"

_"No."_ Almost a shout, Riala's paw tightening into a white-knuckled fist. She forced herself to ignore the hurt look on Malaya's face. "I… _can't_… see them as feeling, thinking—as possibly _good_. I can't think about that. _Ever._ So just… don't talk to me… about it."

A soft sigh from Malaya. She sheathed her rapier, bent over to rummage in her haversack. "I guess I under—"

_SSSTHK!_

Riala sprang up in an instant. _"Run!"_ she shouted as Malaya stared at the arrow that had just skimmed the fur of her head. _"Climb!_"

The squirrelmaid rolled as another arrow hissed in. She snatched up her weapons, scrambled to her footpaws, raced up a tree. Riala followed close behind, barely escaping a third arrow.

Cursing, a small group of raggedly dressed ferrets stalked into the clearing. One had an arrow notched to a bow; another held a longknife and a hateful leer. Riala eyed Malaya and waited.

The squirrelmaid drew in a sharp breath, eyes growing wide. "That—that's th' ferret ya almost killed…!"

"Aye." Her jaw muscles tightened. "Now do you see why I wanted to kill him?"

"But..."

"Aya. _Move._"

Riala gave Malaya a shove and darted the opposite way as an arrow whizzed between them. The two squirrels regathered a couple trees over, hidden in the thick canopy. "You have to kill her."

_"What?"_

Riala slipped an arrow from the squirrelmaid's quiver, handed it to her. "The bowbeast. You have to kill her before she kills us." Malaya gaped, staring blankly. "You're a better shot than me," Riala hissed. "You _have_ to do it."

"O—okay…" A creak as Malaya nocked the arrow, drew back the string, aimed down the quivering shaft.

"Remember your training," Riala murmured, soft and calm. "Don't look her in the eyes—just to the chest. It's just a target. Nothing more than a target… Slow breath, and…"

The bowstring twanged, arrow hissing through the air and burying its bloodhungry head in the bowferret's chest an eyeblink later. The ferret stared down at the flowering stain on her ragged tunic, and then her eyes glazed over, and she crumpled to the ground.

Riala didn't let Malaya dwell on what she'd just done. _"Move!_" she hissed in the squirrelmaid's ear, giving her a shove. Malaya moved. The confused ferrets milled about below, staring into the trees. Riala caught up with her charge several trees over.

"The next one. Pick one and shoot," Riala commanded, placing another arrow in Malaya's paws. The squirrelmaid responded numbly, automatically, taking aim and firing, hitting a ferret in the throat.

That was too much for the remaining two. They dove into the woods, and Riala followed on silent footpaws.

The two ferrets, one a dark fem with a shortsword, the other the longknife-wielding ferret from the previous day, crept as silently as they could through the woods, bent almost double in an attempt to conceal themselves. A futile attempt, because Riala's trained eyes spotted them almost immediately.

The two ferrets motioned to one another, the female edging left around a broad pine, the male moving back to a stand of brush. A savage almost-grin tore across Riala's face and she crept to the ferret fem's pine. She dropped down behind the unsuspecting vermin, the soft impact of her landing whirling the fem around to a tight-stretched cord that wrapped around her neck before she could react.

Riala tugged tight on her roce's cord, pressing behind the female, out of reach of the flailing short sword. Pulling, pulling, choking off air, choking off sound until the ferret went limp in her arms. A slice across the throat made unconsciousness eternal.

All in absolute silence…

Riala returned to the trees, searching out the male ferret. In a few moments she sighted him, prone beneath bushes, betrayed by a hole of broken twigs and twisted branches.

"Greetings, scum," Riala said, dropping to the ground near the brush.

His gaze widened, met hers, and he scrambled to his footpaws—then winced as thorns ripped into his clothes. A grimace as he forced his way free, longknife in paw, and lowered to a fighting crouch. "Gonna rip yer heart out an' feed it ter ya, brushtail…"

Riala's toothy smile didn't change, only her stance as she spread her arms, roce in one paw and dagger in the other. "Care tae try yer paw on this 'brushtail'?"

He snarled and charged, feinting unconvincingly at the last minute, stabbing to her stomach—and into empty air. She came up beside him from a roll, dagger slicing across his leg, shoving aside the ferret's longknife with her dagger and then her roce smashed into his stomach. He doubled over, wheezing, and Riala brought the short club up to crash into his jaw, driving splinters of bone into brain.

Riala straightened, barely out of breath. "Guess I've fully recovered, then," she muttered to herself with the slightest hint of mirthless smiles, remembering long months of being invalid. She cleaned her dagger of blood in the loamy earth, sheathed it at her belt, then climbed up a nearby beech to find her way back to Malaya.

She found the squirrelmaid frozen in the clearing, shaking, standing on locked knees before the bowferret. Riala's lips thinned. _Death trauma…_ She walked up to the young squirrel, laid a gentle paw on her shoulder.

"You had to do it…"

Malaya's shaking grew more violent beneath Riala's paw. "Why…? I—I _killed_ her…"

"She was trying to kill _you_. She fired first…"

"_I killed her!_"

Malaya fell to her knees, wild gaze still fixed on the ferret's corpse. "And I don't even know who she were…" A sudden start, and she reached for the body, pawed with almost frantic urgency through the clothes and weapons. "Maybe there's somethin'… Like with Skyfire…"

"Aya! _Stop!_" Riala grabbed the struggling squirrelmaid by the arms, dragged her away. "Stop… don't try…"

"_Let me go!"_ It was almost a scream, Malaya kicking and straining against the older squirrel's iron grip. "I have to… have to know… _I killed her!_"

Words were useless. Riala hugged Malaya tight to her chest, waited while the squirrelmaid spent her energy in useless struggles that dissolved to heaving sobs. She loosened her hold from firm restraint to comforting embrace then, let Malaya cry out all her tears until the tide of pain ran dry.

"Let's go, Aya," Riala said, soft and gentle.

"But…" She stared to the ferret through eyes puffy from tears. "Shouldn't we…"

"No." Riala helped Malaya up, and the squirrelmaid didn't resist. "The less time you spend here, the better, I think…"

Malaya didn't complain, didn't fight, just followed in numb, lost obedience down the midnight trail.

They stopped by a sprawling oak, branches criss-crossing to make comfortable nests. "Can you climb?" Riala asked, voice still soft, concerned.

"…Aye," Malaya said after a long moment, and pressed her claws into the rough bark.

Riala made sure Malaya took the most secure perch, in the very center of the oak where the branches spread outward to form a convenient hollow of old leaves. Riala herself found a separate nook not far up, curled between the branches, and fell into a light sleep.

She woke to whimpering, rustling, flailing limbs against leafmold and wood. At first she stiffened, paws reaching for her dagger, but at the sight of the thrashing squirrelmaid in the hollow of the oak, she relaxed—a little.

"Aya, Aya… Malaya, shh…"

Soft reassurances as she made her way down the thick branches. She reached Malaya's trembling form, shook her softly, speaking her name over and over to pull her to consciousness.

"_NO!_"

A scream, a gasp of air, and Malaya sat straight up, eyes wide. She stared into nothing for a long moment, shaking, then seemed to realize her surroundings. Her eyes glazed with the sheen of tears as her stare turned to Riala, and with a burst of sobs, she flung herself into Riala's arms, clinging like a dying beast to a single hope of salvation.

Riala didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say. She just held the young Wanderer in comforting arms, rocked her back and forth like a babe, and murmured wordless reassurance as Malaya released her tears.

_Skyfire..._

Troubled dark brown eyes staring into his; her voice; her scent; her touch...

_Don't go... I..._

But she had to go, he knew she had to go. She couldn't handle horde life. Horde ethics. Him—being with—Astarte.

_I..._

He'd stared about the horde and found no sign of her, no idea when she'd left. Only knowing she was _gone_.

_I... love..._

Then he was standing beneath a gathering of trees, dense and thick and utterly unlike the plains the horde had been marching through for the past few days. Silent but for the constant background murmur of dreams, and then throught he thick fog stumbled a travel-weary, road-dusted ferret—

_"Skyfire—"_

but she didn't hear him, didn't see him, and then a whirlwind of red-brown and rust-gold crashed down through the trees.

_Goldentail!_

The steel-eyed squirrel ignoring Skyfire's explanations, pouncing on the stoat, questioning her, and none of the words intelligible to his ear, nothing comprehensible but the _pain..._

_...She's... torturing... Skyfire..._

A yell of fury and he ran at Goldentail, sword flashing for her throat--and passed through as if there were nothing before him but air.

And she was still torturing Skyfire...

He was frozen in place, unable to look away, unable to act, unable to stop it. Had to watch as she bled, had to listen to her stifled screams, had to watch her die...

Four words out of the incoherency came clear to his ears at last, Skyfire's halting agonized voice.

_"Kiern... I'm so... sorry..."_

_Skyfire...!_

Her last gasping breath... and silence.

_Skyfire! NO—_

"SKYFIRE!"

Screaming it and he sat up in a bed of furs, eyes wide and staring.

"...Kiern?"

Astarte's voice beside him; she sat up, placed a gentle paw on Kiern's bare back. "A nightmare...?"

"...Aye." He let out a long breath, slumped in exhausted despair. "It felt... so very real..."

She frowned a little. "What was it?"

"Skyfire... in a forest... And Goldentail—" A shuddering breath. "She—tortured Skyfire. To death. And I... I could do... nothing..."

Silence from Astarte, and then, "Might've just been a dream."

"I don't know... it felt like—more than that." He turned a troubled gaze to meet hers. "I... think Skyfire is dead..."

"Kiern..."

She reached forward to enfold him in a comforting hug; he stiffened and pulled away, standing up, tension visible in every muscle. "Don't..."

"What... I thought you were past this!" Astarte sounded oddly injured.

"...She left because of me." Kiern's voice was quiet, flat. "Because I slept with you."

A low sigh; she rose and walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around him in an embrace that was at once comforting and sensual. Kiern's jaw clenched; he forced himself not to react. "You do not understand, Darkmoon," he said evenly, but his voice broke a little when he continued. "Skyfire... is _dead_... because of me!"

"Shh..." She moved to face him, kissed him with seductive fervor. Again he didn't respond except in ways he couldn't control. Astarte stepped back, a frown etched across her face. "She may be dead... or she may not be. But she _left you._ She's _gone_. Ya have to forget her."

_"Forget her!"_ He snarled. "You think I can do that? Astarte..." The confession came in a fervent rush. "_I loved her._"

She let go of him, a petulant scowl flicking over russet features so that he half expected the stoat fem to stamp a footpaw. "But she's gone. You're _mine_ now. She lost you. She gave up on you! You're _mine!_"

Kiern stared for a long moment. Disgust crept over his astonished face. "I belong to nobeast, Darkmoon," he said at last, and turned away to the pile of his clothes.

"But... ya came to _me_, not her! You've slept with _me_ every week!"

"...Aye." His voice was as cold as the sheath of the blade he buckled on over his breeches. "I came to you because I was ordered to and because I did not want to lose a fine subcaptain."

A short silence. "Aye... but ya lost her anyway, didn't ya?" and now Astarte's voice was again seductive, sultry, velvet concealing poisoned blades.

Kiern stiffened, one arm in his black tunic. "Aye," he grated, and pulled it on the rest of the way. "But I am not _yours_. And will not be. I belong to _nobeast._"

"...nobeast but th' Longclaws." Still sultry and now a little sullen too.

Kiern whirled on her with a snarl. "He has my allegiance. He does not _own_ me."

A laugh, bitter and amused. "Prove it." She smirked. "He owns you as much as he owns that scimitar of his. You're just another tool for him to use."

He growled, paw spasming tight on his saber's hilt. A deep breath, a pause, forcing himself to calm. "I'll not visit your tent again, captain."

Astarte's smile remained; an attempt at knowing superiority but it only came off as forced, edging on desperation. "You'll be back, Kiern," she called as he stepped from her tent. "You'll be back..."

Riala and Malaya tracked in silence the next day, with Riala doing most of the tracking and Malaya following in wordless inner thought. Through thick woods and small clearings, pausing over a days-old campfire, continuing on the winding trail. A strange contrast to the previous night--the previous two nights--those of blood and pain and regret. The weather seemed oblivious to the squirrels' moods, golden sun illuminating motes of dust in fae-like beams, filtering green through fresh spring leaves, while a gentle breeze flitted through the crisp cool air.

"Riala..."

Riala almost jumped at the unexpected vocalization from the heretofore silent Malaya, but she didn't look up from the dry feces concealed in thick but broken brush. "Aye?"

A brief silence as the squirrelmaid shifted from footpaw to footpaw. "When... did ya stop... um..." More shifting. "...caring? About them ya killed, I mean."

"...Ah." Riala straightened, followed pawprints in the soft earth, undisturbed despite the passage of days. "...I'm not sure."

Malaya ignored or didn't notice the abrupt tension in Riala's voice that said she didn't want to discuss it. "So... ya just... stopped carin'? Over time an' stuff?"

"...Hate can kill caring. Very quickly." A shrug. "After my first or second kill. I stopped feeling guilty then."

"But..." Malaya's voice grew very small and very soft. "...I don't want to hate..."

Riala stopped, turned to face the troubled squirrelmaid with sadness in her eyes. "I don't know what you can do then... If you can't hate... and you can't stop caring... you'll kill yourself with guilt."

"But..."

"Aya..." Riala took a deep breath, placed a gentle paw on the squirrelmaid's shoulder. Riala opened her mouth, started to speak--but no words came out, and she just shook her head. "Be careful." Riala smiled at Malaya, crooked and uncertain, then turned back to the trail and the hunt.

Sunset forced them to halt for the day, the increasingly hard-to-follow trail obscured by dimming light. Malaya stifled a yawn, or tried to--it hummed loud in Riala's sensitive ears.

"We'll sleep here," Riala said, scrutinizing the area.

"Oh good..." Malaya slumped against a broad tree. "Uhm... or we could keep goin'..."

Riala smiled a little at the squirrelmaid's attempt at stalwartness. "No . You're tired, and I'm no owl. Can't see too well at night--What's wrong?"

Malaya had turned, paws exploring the old oak, a puzzled frown etched on her angular features. "Somethin' strange..." Shock flooded her eyes then, and horrified repulsion, and she scrambled to her footpaws. _"Blood..._"

"What..." Riala's lips thinned, brow furrowed, and she stepped near the tree. One calloused paw felt across the bar, itched at the crust of dried fluid, and her nose twitched with the stench of old blood. Her eyes narrowed in the fading light of day, traveling about the tree's broad trunk, and he rpaw traced abrasions in the bark.

"Somebeast was chained here..."

"Riala!"

The older squirrel turned at Malaya's call. "What is it?"

Malaya crouched over a patch of bare ground. "The ground's weird here..."

Riala joined the squirrelmaid at the long swath of earth, prodded it with a paw. "Soft. Like..."

"...somebeast's been diggin'?"

A slow nod, and Riala raked out a pawful of dirt, tossed it to the side. "Help me dig."

They'd gotten a few paw-heights down when a flutter of wings and an indignant shriek cracked the silent air.

"OFF OFF OFF! Robbers! No respect! AWAY!"

Both squirrels ducked as feathered fury swooped over them, as talons raked fur and down scattered about. Riala snarled and swiped at the creature with her roce; it avoided the club, dancing just out of reach, chattering all the while.

"Come back ta rob th' grave, foolbeasts, cruelbeasts? Nottanuff ta torture rape destroy _kill?!_"

Riala ducked another furious dive, exchanged glances with the harried Malaya. A quick nod, gazes fixed back on the bird, and it swooped down a second time.

"GET AWAY AWAY A--"

_"NOW!_" Riala shouted, and both she and Malaya leapt into the air, straight for the startled bird. Aya caught a claw, Riala the tail, and all three came tumbling down in a flurry of feathers and fur.

Riala was up immediately, grappling with flailing wings, yelling at Malaya to hold the bird down. A yelp from the squirrelmaid, arm raked by a sharp beak. Squawking from the struggling bird. Riala's reply was a growl. With a last heave she flipped the bird onto its back, straddled its stomach, and set her dagger to the pulsing white throat.

All fell silent at last, noiseless except for the hiss of heavy breaths and the agitated clack of the bird's beak.

"Now," Riala panted, "how about explaining what your problem is?"

The dark brown eyes blazed fury. "Not hafta help graverobbers!"

"Oh?" Riala's paw tightened on the dagger's hilt; it twitched into the thick feathers. "Care to wager on that?"

"Ria..."

Malaya padded closer, paw clasped to the gash across her arm. "I don't think it's vermin..."

"It?!" An indignant squawk. _"It?!_ I's a _fieldfare!_ Bestabirds, swiftest quickest mightiest!"

"Oh, seasons." Riala grimaced and shifted her weight. "Fieldfares. I know your type... should just put you out of everybeast's misery."

A hiss from the bird. "Whatcha mean, furbeast brushbeast?"

Riala directed her answer to Malaya. "There's nothing noisier than a fieldfare. Nothing more full of itself, either."

"Ssstupidbeast!" The fieldfare's feathers stood nearly on end. "Stupidstupidstupid! Damn moptail! Hells--"

Renewed pressure on the dagger clicked the bird's beak closed, but his dark gaze sparked with hatred. "Watch your language, featherbrain," Riala said. "Why did you attack us?"

Another hiss. "Stupidbeasts evilbeasts! Diggin' up poorbeasts' graves! Songsinger not deserve it not deserve ANY of it! Hurt him, kill him, now desecrate grave?!"

"But we didn't know it was a grave!" Malaya said in horrified protest, jumping back from the patch of soft earth."

"Stpuidbeast! Blood on tree, blood on ground, soft ground that long--think think _think_, stupidbeast!"

Malaya winced. "I'm sorry..."

"Should be." The yellow beak clacked. "Was a goodbeast."

"So are we!" Malaya said.

The dark brown eye focused on the squirrelmaid. "Squirrelbeast. Maybe not goodbeast."

Riala grimaced, and she shifted her weight again over the bird's black-speckled yellow breast. "We're hunting a wolverine. Nightdeath Longclaws."

"Wolverine?" A hiss. "Longclaws! Evil bad wrong wrong HATE!" The beak clacked again and again, like two stones pounding in a mill. "Cruelbeast foolbeast! _Kill!_"

The squirrels exchanged glances. "Why do you hate him?" Riala asked.

The fieldfare's steel-gray head thrashed back and forth. "Badbeast killa songsinger! _My_ songsinger bardbeast! Broke his song, broke his back, hate hate HATE!"

Malaya took another step toward the fieldfare. "Will ya help us?" A furious nod from the bird, and Malaya glanced to Riala. "We c'n trust him..."

"Really." The older squirrel's eyes narrowed. "Remember the ferrets?"

Malaya flinched. "This is different."

"How?"

She shifted from footpaw to footpaw. "Had a good reason t'attack us." At Riala's dubious gaze, she ducked her head. "...Please?"

Riala sighed, looked down at the fieldfare, and grimaced. "All right." She jumped back, off the bird, dagger at the ready.

The fieldfare flipped back onto black claws, cackled in delight, and stretched out his wings. Red shoulders faded to brown, darkening to black at the wing's primaries and tail. His white throat pulsed with blood and breath, pale down darkening to yellow and then to white again, all marked with black arrow-shapes. Bright brown eyes regarded the two squirrels curiously from a bed of silver-gray head feathers, and the yellow beak clacked in satisfaction.

"I help ya. Find stupidhorde, killawolverine." His feathers fluffed out, his head dipped down in a bobbing sort of bow. "I's called Pilaris Arrowflight, swiftest of birds!"

Riala's mouth quirked up into a scar-twisted grin, barely suppressed. "I'm Riala Goldentail," she returned, sheathing her dagger at last.

"An' I'm Malaya." She looked the bird over. "Do we call ya Pilaris, or Arrowflight, or--"

The fieldfare tilted his head, took a couple hops toward the squirrelmaid. "Pilar's good." Another hop. "Prettysquirrel sing?"

Malaya blinked and looked about as if expecting to see another squirrel standing nearby. "Uh... sorta..."

Hop, hop. "Singasong forra Pilar?"

Riala sighed and came to the rescue. "So, Pilaris--what happened here?"

He stopped bare paws-lengths from Malaya's face and craned his neck to peer at Riala. The yellow beak clicked. "Badstuffs." A hiss. "Wolverine killed th' songsinger."

"...songsinger?" Malaya echoed.

A nod. "Weaselbard, spycaptain, healerpaw."

Riala hissed. "Vermin!"

"Notevil!" Pilar hissed back. "Songsinger. Nobeast evil that play like that, sing like that. I follow through woods ta hear songsinger." Another hiss and his feathers stood up in fury. "Wolverine killasong!"

"Shh... Riala didn't mean anything by it," Malaya said, shooting the older squirrel a warning glance.

The fieldfare took little notice. "Songsinger loved guardcaptain. Wolverine learn this, get madmadmad." A hiss. "Have evilbeasts chain songsinger to tree," and he motioned to the oak with an outspread wing, "beat him an'..." A shriek of pure grief and rage. "Smashed songsinger's musicmaker!" A hiss. "Touched songsinger in badways... bad bad _bad_..." His beak clacked open and shut, feathers ruffled, hissing, enraged to wordlessness. _"HATE!"_

Malaya's face held absolute shocked horror. "They... _raped_ him?!" A shriek and a nod from the bird. "But _why..._?! For lovin' somebeast??"

Pilar's claws clenched at the ground. "Songsinger male. Guardcaptain male. Not understand how thatta works, but... Why _kill_ for?"

Riala's face twisted. "Unnatural..."

"Arrowbeast killa songsinger," Pilar continued at last. "All mad-like... march away. Stoatfem beast comeback. Diggahole, bury songsinger, leave thattaway." He gestured in the direction the squirrels had come from.

Malaya's startled gaze flicked to Riala. "Ya think that's--"

_"No."_ Riala's scarred paw spasmed into a fist, ears laying back. "I don't want to think about it."

"Ria..."

_"NO._"

Malaya sighed and turned back to the bird. "Ya gonna help us find th' wolverine?"

A decisive nod from the fieldfare. "Yesyes. Finda wolverine, _killabeast!_"

"Not yet," Riala said tightly, breaking from her tense reverie as Pilar's wings stretched for flight. "We need sleep. We'll leave in the morning."

Skyfire… I never knew until you left exactly how much you did for me. The role you held in the Nightclaws. I received the Longclaws' orders, carried them out, gave orders of my own… I am and always will be the voice of the Longclaws to the Nightclaws. But you… you had the freedom to befriend the unit as I could not. You were my eyes, my ears, able to judge the morale of the Nightclaws and relay it to me… The scratching of quill on parchment paused, letting the murmurs of an awakening camp filter through the tent's canvas. Kiern listened for a moment, motionless, before dipping quill in ink and resuming his writing. …I am blind and deaf without you. I know I should find a new subcaptain, but none of the Nightclaws are you… and I do not know whom to trust anymore. You are gone, Stormsong is gone, and you've both left me with only memories and doubts. 

A long sigh heaved from Kiern's chest. His gaze traveled over the words, his paw swished the quill in water, his feet pushed him to standing. Paper crackled as he picked up the letter, waved it through the dusty air to dry the ink.

And then, as with every letter before, he laid it in the fire and watched it flare to flame and finally to ash.

A rap on the tent pole jerked the stoat's attention from the mesmerizing flames. He straightened his tunic, checked paws for ink. "Aye?"

"Swiftblade, sir."

_Ah yes… the practical one. _"Come in."

The wiry ferret ducked into the tent and snapped a sharp salute beneath Kiern's thoughtful scrutiny. He'd grown more polished under seasons in the Nightclaws, his battered leather knife harness replaced with a black one, each blade polished to a high gleam in its respective sheath. The sable coat was well-groomed and clean, the brown eyes sharp and focused, taking in every detail.

_I wonder… _Kiern mused as he said aloud, "At ease."

The ferret relaxed and nodded outside. "News from th' Nighteyes, cap'n."

"…Oh?" Kiern frowned. "Why didn't they come to me?"

A shrug. "New cap'n, new methods, ye ken. Anyhow, t'aint official yet. I s'pect ye'll be gettin' a message from th' chief—scouts found a castle not a couple days' march from 'ere. Flower or Flort or somethin' o' th' sort."

"…Hm." Kiern nodded to the ferret. "Thank you."

Swiftblade saluted, turned as if to leave.

"Wait." At the ferret's questioning look, Kiern forced a smile to show he held no ire to the soldier. "What have you heard in the camp? How is morale, do you know?"

Swiftblade relaxed a little and turned back to face his captain. "'Tis well enow, sir. Not too chipper about losin' Subcaptain Skyfire, mind ye, none of 'em are, but well enow besides all that."

"Any dissention at all? Anybeast not satisfied or causing trouble?"

A moment's thought. "Nay—there were a bit o'er a fem some days ago, but 'tis settled naow."

"…the same fem?"

Swiftblade cast him a puzzled glance. "What do ye be meanin'?"

Kiern searched his memory for the name. "Skenla? Rat fem… Skyfire—" The name choked in his throat and he coughed, swallowed, tried again. "Skyfire told me that she'd been playing males off each other."

"Oh, her." A grimace. "Nay, not her. T'was th' fault o' th' males this time… 'Tis settled, naow."

"…Good." Kiern saluted dismissal, returned sharply by the ferret. "Farewell, and thank you."

Swiftblade nodded and spun on his heel, marching swiftly from the tent. Kiern watched him go, thoughtful and pondering. _A new subcaptain… I wonder…_


	16. On to Southsward

**Vengeance Quest**

**Chapter 16:**** On to Southsward**

The messenger from the Longclaws came shortly after Swiftblade's departure, with simply a terse "Captains meeting in th' Chief's tent". Kiern checked his uniform, black and spotless except for the inescapable dust that ever clogged the grassland air, and headed for the Longclaws' tent.

"…heard the news?"

"Castle… gonna lay siege…"

"Never done somethin' quite like this afore…"

"…Longclaws settling down?"

Whispers, soft voices, snatches of conversation drifting to Kiern's pricked ears. He frowned a bit, listening. Lay siege to a castle? Certainly something out of the ordinary raid-and-plunder…

Two Nightclaws stood guard at Nightdeath's tent. They saluted to their captain as he approached, metal gleaming like blood in the light of the setting sun, and parted to let him enter. Kiern nodded to the two weasels and ducked into the darkness of the tent.

The other captains waited there already—Astarte, refusing to meet his gaze; Deathcry, gnawing on yet another bone in the corner; Veneno, leaning on his scythe in the darkest shadow in the tent; and—

"Sharshek."

It was more of a curse than a greeting, flat and cold on Kiern's tongue. The rat grinned up savagely from his leaning position against the tent pole. "Good even, Kiern."

The stoat stiffened. "Even the Longclaws calls me 'captain', and he is my superior, _rat. _I suggest you do the same."

Sharshek's flat mud-brown eyes narrowed. "I'm a captain now, too, you know. You can't act all high and mighty towards me anymore!"

"Can't I?" A hissed whisper accompanying the slither of steel and in an instant Kiern's saber was at the new captain's dark throat. "Can't I, snitch?" He growled, low and deadly as Sharshek's eyes widened. "You're a very _new_ captain… and one who gained his position through _treachery_. Note this, _rat…"_ and the saber bit into the rat's neck, drawing the thinnest line of blood. "Those who gain their positions by treachery here rarely keep them for long. Can't be trusted, after all… who knows how high your ambition reaches? For my position? For the Longclaws', maybe?" A dry and bitter laugh. "He is not a fool… and you will not keep your position nor your life for long. Not with how you gained captaincy, _scum."_

He released the rat with a jerk, wiped the thin stain of blood off the saber onto the rat's dark green breeches. A smooth motion and it was sheathed, and Kiern turned away, seemingly relaxed but ears pricked back to Sharshek, muscles ready for any retaliation.

The rat scowled to cover a shaken soul, swiped his paw across the bare slice on his throat, spat onto the ground—but he remained standing, and he remained silent.

Purposeful pawsteps and hasty greetings from the guards announced the approach of Nightdeath Longclaws. The five captains stood, straightened, and snapped salutes when the sinuous midnight form bent into the tent, white claws polished as usual to a high gleam, ebon eyes concealing any emotion. He waved the five to ease.

"I suppose you've all heard the news," he said dryly. Nods all around. The Longclaws shook his head and glanced to Sharshek. "Spycaptain. Fill them in on the situation."

Sharshek cast a smirk Kiern's way and stepped forward to the center of the tent. "My scouts," he said, with a slight proud emphasis on the possessive, "have found a large castle not three days' march from here. The inhabitants call it 'Floret', apparently, and it's ruled by" and distaste colored his face and tone "squirrels. Otters make up the majority of the guards within."

Nightdeath nodded. "Good." He turned to the other captains. "I've already dispatched some of the Nighteyes to scout out the castle. Veneno—"

"Yessir?"

"Send some of your best Nightblood to help scout—and capture a couple for questioning, if possible." At the anticipatory gleam in the black fox's eye, Nightdeath added to that order. "And kill not… we do not need an announcement to our presence. Though if they can kill any of the leaders…"

A low dark laugh. "Death hears… and Death will gladly comply."

Kiern's mouth twisted into a disgusted grimace that quickly smoothed to expressionlessness when Nightdeath turned his way. "Have you a concern, Guardcaptain?"

Kiern thought a moment, then nodded. "We've never really attacked a fortification before, sir… Why now?"

"Several reasons," the wolverine replied. "For one, it has a large profit within its walls. For another, it is about time that we built a base… a training ground for new recruits, and a place to store our plunder. And I…" He paused, and his gaze distanced. "There is something I've been needing to do for many seasons…"

A nod. "I see…" An uncomfortable silence passed, and Kiern straightened. "Well. What would you have the rest of us do?"

"I want you—" and the Longclaws turned to Astarte "—to establish patrols. We'll be camping at a hill not far from here; you'll patrol outward, round up anybeast you find. Try to gather food as well." He turned to Deathcry. "Drill your archers into the ground. I want them as accurate as possible." And then to Kiern. "You know what to do."

Kiern nodded; his mind had already been tallying up tasks. _Double guard on the Longclaws; border sentries; drilling…_ "Aye, sir."

"Oh—and after losing your subcaptain, you will need another Nightclaw, will you not?"

The guardcaptain's lips thinned and he flinched inside. "…Aye."

"Have you any in mind?" the Longclaws asked.

Kiern drew a deep breath. He'd been trying his hardest _not_ to think about finding a replacement for Skyfire… not a replacement subcaptain, not a replacement Nightclaw, not… But he had to. Duty to the Longclaws came first.

Always duty… 

He shook his head. "But I shall find one."

"Aye, you shall." The wolverine frowned a little. "There is one among the Nighteyes… she has been restless of late since the change in command. A young vixen… Bloodmoon by name. Very good with the scimitar."

Kiern bowed his head in consent. "Aye, sir, I shall look into it."

"Good." And as he ever did, the Longclaws turned his attention away, satisfied as ever that his captain of the guard would follow out his orders without question. To perfection…

The world awoke to a fieldfare's song, dawn opening eyes gray with sleep to overlook the woodland scene. A bird, feathers fluffed, wings aflutter, slate beak opened wide for the warbling song. On the ground below, a young squirrel groaned and pulled her cloak up over her tufted ears. In the boughs above, an older squirrel snarled and tossed a twig at the bird.

"Awk!"

He jumped and tilted his head, angling one accusing dark eye up at Riala. "Whatcha go an' do that fer, crazyfur, strangebeast?!"

"What're ya doin' wakin' us _up _at this hour, birdbrain?" Malaya growled from below.

"There's a lot I'd rather wake up to than your squawking," Riala said.

Pilar hissed. "Singing, not squawkingness!"

"Could've fooled me," Riala muttered, swinging to the ground next to Malaya.

The fieldfaire's feathers stood upright for a moment, and then memory of their quest transformed indignation to impatience and he fluttered down beside the two squirrels. "Go nownownow!" His eyes gleamed. "Catchascum, killit kill kill!"

Riala shot Pilar a sour glance. "We _will,_" she said, "as soon as we pack up and pick up the trail…"

"I knows trailthing already! Follow from skyplace! Go _now_ slowbeasts!"

The goldentailed squirrel cast her eyes to the leafy canopy above. "Seasons… all right, birdbrain…" She skittered up the tree and came down with her haversack. Below, Malaya rolled up her foodstuffs in her blanket and tied it across her back, then slung on her bow and quiver and rapier.

"I'm ready," Malaya said, straightening her tunic.

"Right… Lead the way, bird," Riala said.

Pilar clacked his beak at her, not liking the commanding tone, but took to the sky without further complaint.

They followed the bird through the thinning wood as the sun rose to brighten the day, illuminating the path, filtering through the green of leaves to cast summer leafshadow across the ground. Riala's sharp gaze picked out the heavily crushed brush from the passage of scores of footpaws—it was a simple path to follow, aged though it was. Here the healing scar of a slashed branch, there a wilted sapling with stripped bark… the signs were there for those who knew how to look.

But she didn't even need to look, for the fieldfare seemed to know the way quite well. They made good time, and by late afternoon, as the sun glared into the squirrels' eyes, Pilar fluttered to a landing on a low-hanging branch. "Furbeasts, stopstop…"

Riala did so, shifting automatically to the cover of brush, and Malaya stood confused in the middle of the path. "What's th' matter?" the younger squirrel asked.

"Umm… no more leaftrees t'hide in, perch in, sing in…"

Malaya tilted her head. "Whatcha mean? Th' forest ends'r somethin'?"

The steel-gray head bobbed up, down, up, down. "Lotsa grassplains, no hidespots, just flatflatflat."

Riala frowned. "The plains…? I've heard of them but I've never _been _there…"

"Thought you'd been everywhere, Ria!"

"…no," Riala said with an exasperated glance Malaya's way. "Northlands, Salamandastron, the sand dunes, Mossflower… not everywhere." She looked to Pilar, who was dancing from claw to claw. "What's wrong?"

His beak clacked, and he glanced side to side. "Dun' like notrees. Live in _forests, _not in plainplace! Wherehide from hawkbirds, fangbeasts, meanarrows…?"

"Ya don't hafta come, Pilar," Malaya said gently.

The dark eye glared. "Am _going! _Thinking Pilar cowardworm? Nonono! Pilar _brave, _not gonna fly from just notrees, nobush, noleaves…" His feathers fluffed upwards and his claws gripped the branch tighter. "Bravebird. Gonna kill evilbeast who hurtshamedkilled my songsinger! Evenif… go through nocover grassplace."

"Right…" Riala shook her head. "Well then. Lead the way, bird."

He stretched his wings out, flapped a few times, but didn't loosen his death-grip on the branch. "Am leading. Soonlike. …Wantsay farewell to leaftrees."

Riala grimaced. "You do that. Come, Malaya… we'll walk on ahead."

Pilar tightened and loosened his claws, gripped and ungripped, watching the two squirrels hike off into the ever-thinning wood, tailbrushes high. "Mustgo, mustkill evilbeasts… evilbeasts killa Pilar's songsinger. Mustkill!" His head twisted back to look at the woods behind almost longingly. "Mustgo…"

With a deep breath, the fieldfare thrust off from the branch in a flutter of wings and a wild shriek of defiance. "Waitwait, brushtails! I come!"

Riala wasn't sure what she'd expected. A slow tapering of trees, smaller and smaller until they disappeared entirely? Or more and more sparse, or maybe tall grass among the undergrowth? She certainly hadn't been expecting _this—_a sudden halt of forest, a sudden beginning of golden plains, lightshimmer flowing across the grasses with the wind.

"Beautiful…"

Malaya's voice, awe-struck, nightoak gaze taking in the expanse of green and gold stretching in gentle slopes all the way to the distant horizon, where gold met deep summer blue with the song of the plains. Here there clumped a patch of purple heather, there a stretch of wildflower reds, and bursting from the cover of the gold came a thunderclap of wings, grouse taking to the sapphire sky.

Riala had to agree, staring up into the cloudless heavens and drawing in a deep breath of summer-scented air. For a moment her scarred and hardened visage softened, and she looked almost her true age, rather than seasons older.

But the nervous flutter of wings behind her prodded trained reflexes, and she whirled, paw to her dagger. And relaxed again at the sight of a startled Pilar, but caution still rippled beneath the marred red-brown fur. "Well. We're here. Now what?"

A cough, and the dark gaze flicked from side to side. "Uhm. I searchstuff? Meanhorde going thisway," and one wing pointed in the same direction they'd been traveling, "so… I flythere, look for passagesigns?"

"All right, bird… We'll follow?"

He ducked his head in an awkward nod. "Yesyesyes." A whirlwind of feathers and he was in the air again, describing an erratic pattern through the sky.

"He don't like this place, does he?" Malaya asked after several minutes of walking with no sound but the swish of their movement through the waist-high grasses.

Riala shrugged. "I suppose not… though I don't blame him."

Malaya's head tilted. "Why? It's beautiful…"

"What did I tell you about beauty?"

The younger squirrel winced at the tension in Riala's tone. "That it's deceptive… an' c'n be dangerous-like?"

"Aye." The warrior squirrel looked about the featureless plains. "Aye, it's beautiful, but there's no real place to hide—and too many places to hide."

Malaya frowned. "Whatcha mean?"

A sigh from Riala. "Stay here. Close your eyes, count to ten, then open them."

Confused, Malaya obeyed, the whispered "one, two, three" of her counting following Riala into the grasses. Wind rustled about the younger squirrel, covering her mentor's leaving, though her ears strained for any telltale sound. "…nine… ten."

Malaya opened her eyes. All about was grass, golden wheat, featureless plains stretching to the curve of the horizon. And no sign of Riala.

The squirrelmaid peered close to the ground, crouched beside broken grass. Impossible to move through the plains without breaking a few grass blades, even if one were as skilled as Riala Goldentail. Malaya stepped forward along the faint trail, nose twitching for her mentor's scent, eyes focused for signs of passage—

—and then there was the too-familiar prick of cold steel at the back of her neck, and she stiffened.

"You see?" Riala's rough voice behind her, and the dagger withdrew. Malaya stood, rubbing at the back of her neck. "A false trail, quick movements, stay in the target's footsteps… it's all too easy for an opponent to hide. And all too hard to hide if you've already been spotted…"

Malaya swallowed hard, nodding. "I… see whatcha mean…"

"Good." Riala started onward. "Keep a sharp eye out."

The squirrelmaid followed, far less carefree and wide-eyed now that she knew the potential dangers of the golden plains.

The sun's lower edge was just touching the horizon, painting the sky as golden as the plains, when Pilar came fluttering back. Just a black shape against the darkening sky at first, and wariness flattened both squirrels to the ground, but as he flew closer they recognized the form of the fieldfaire and rose to standing.

"Found a brushtail furbeast sortlike youtwo," the fieldfare called as he landed, yellow breast heaving with exhaustion. Malaya offered her waterskin; the bird tilted his head back for her to trickle the water into his gaping beak.

"A squirrel?" Riala asked as the younger squirrel tended Pilar.

A nod, tiny tongue flicking water from the slate beak. "Yesyes. Redder'n youtypes, brightbright redness. Notlook too goodlike—footpaws drag, earwilt, limptail. Sicklike?"

Malaya frowned. "Where is it?"

"Thattaway." Pilar motioned with his wing roughly in the direction they'd been traveling. "Methinks a he-squirrel? Notsure, hard ta tell with furbeasts… no featherthings."

"…We don't have time."

Malaya glared Riala's way. "He could be hurt!"

A shrug. "His problem. _We _have to find the Longclaws."

Bird and squirrel stared at her. "Thought you goodbeast, goodfur…"

"I never claimed that," Riala said, harsh, almost angry. "My goal is to kill Nightdeath Longclaws. Not to rescue every dimwit that crosses my path."

Malaya winced and took a step back. "Ria… but ya saved me…"

"Orders. A mission. The Wanderers was just to occupy my time until I found signs of the Longclaws."

Riala deliberately didn't look at Malaya's face; she knew it would hold a hurt expression and she didn't want to see it. _I'm back on the hunt. I can't afford to care… I can't let her burden me. I should never have let her come… _A slow breath. _…I shouldn't have said that…_

Grass rustled with Malaya's passage, a hesitant staggering movement escalating to an outright run. Riala forced herself to still and calm, forced herself not to flinch. The gold-brown eyes closed for a long moment.

_Whap!_

A blow to her head opened them wide, and in an instant her dagger was against the fieldfare's pale throat. "What was that for?" she growled.

Pilar didn't flinch, simply glared at her with his beady gaze. "Notnice! _Mean _furtail! Thought you and prettysquirrel _friends!"_

Riala glared back. "I never _asked _her to come along. She invited herself and I couldn't stop her."

"Seen ya move," the bird shot back. "Ya coulda stopped prettybrush. She notgood tracker, notlike you. You teachsquirrel, trainsquirrel, takecare. Why mean-like now?"

"…What would you know of it, featherbrain?" Riala snarled, turning away, fists curled at her side. "You considered a _weasel _to be your friend! One you never even _talked _to! So don't speak to me of _friends."_

A hiss. "Me no speak?! What of _you? _Snarlgrowl, try an' drive all away, an' why? Friendstuffs no make _weak, _like you thinkseem! Make _strong! _Youthink you find meanwolverine, killathing, all by self?" The beak clacked in scorn. "I seen darkhorde, verminhorde. _Lotsa_ furbeasts, lotsa weapons, goodfighters. You no killa!"

Riala's teeth bared in a silent snarl, but she didn't move and didn't reply.

The fieldfare's voice grew sly. "Or mebbe I know reasonthing… You scaredfur. No want _lose _prettybrush. No wantfor prettybrush to die. Yesyes?"

"…Pilar."

A rustle of feathers, the scrape of claws at the threat of death in Riala's voice. "Yesyesyes?"

"…Enough. Unless you wish to lose a wing."

The bird gulped, the beak clicked shut. "Yesyes fursquirrel…" A nervous hop. "But… methinks notnice horde thatway… and prettybrush went thatway… and notwell squirrel thatway too… so… yougo thatway too?" he finished in a rush.

Riala sighed and forced taut muscles into calm. "Aye… I suppose I must…"

Night had almost closed its doors on the last light of day by the time Riala spied the telltale movement of grasses that betrayed somebeast's presence. Malaya had long since rejoined her, silence heavy and hurting between the two squirrels. Pilar circled ahead, swooping low to relay a message.

"Hurtsquirrel notfarnow… tenlengths, nine, eight? Notsure."

"Wait above… We'll meet him."

Pilar nodded and flew off, and Riala turned to Malaya for the first time since her harsh comments of before. "You circle around to the left… I'll go right. Be wary."

Malaya didn't meet her gaze, simply nodded and rustled off into the brush, head bowed. Riala watched her go, heart clenching within her chest, but she forced the feeling to the back of her consciousness and headed in the opposite direction.

He wasn't hard to find, noisy as the squirrel was, with dragging brush and stumbling footpaws. Riala waited just out of sight, watching for Malaya. Within moments grass rustled, and her sharp eyes caught the flash of russet among the shadowed gold. A nod, and Riala stepped from the grasses.

The squirrel started, almost falling over himself as he backpedaled, fumbling with a short sword. A fine blade, gleaming in the dying red light of day, but he held it awkwardly, as one in the beginning stages of training. Malaya emerged behind him and he whirled, eyes wild and wary.

"Who are you?" he said at last, confronted with the silent stares of the two obviously better trained squirrels.

"It seems we'd be in better positions to be asking questions," Riala said, voice flat and chill, though she saw no threat from this squirrel, worn and harmless as he seemed.

He straightened, coughed, smoothed down a dusty jerkin. Emerald green, and finely woven—it spoke of wealth, and again of little experience in the wilds, offering little protection against the elements. "I am Malcan," he said, and seemed about to say more, but checked himself.

Riala looked him up and down. Young, well built, with healthy flame-red fur, if a bit travel-dusted. "You don't belong out here."

"Um?" He blinked. "Why do you say that? I am a traveler, and a fine warrior…" A snicker from Malaya whirled him about, an offended expression on his face. "Excuse me, miss, but it is no laughing matter! I am Malcan, greatest of swordsbeasts in Southsward…"

Malaya nearly doubled over with laughter. "S-sorry, Malcan, but…" Another fresh burst of laughter. "Haven't been trainin' long or nothin', but… even _I _c'n tell ya don't know how ta use that." She nodded towards the short sword and started laughing again.

Riala sighed and dropped her dagger into its sheath. "Put the blade away, youngling."

He scowled, now doubly offended, and waved it at her. "I am a warrior of Castle Floret! I'll not sheath my blade for anybeast! You must take it from my cold, dead…" The words dried in his throat as Riala slowly drew her dagger, dropped into a fighting crouch, and gazed at him with eyes as chill and empty as the gates of Black Forest. "Er… or… mayhap I'll… put it away…" A nervous laugh and he sheathed the short sword with suddenly shaking paws. "Not because I am surrendering, you know, but it is against my code to fight females."

"Really now?" Malaya grinned and her rapier slithered free of its sheath to point at Malcan. "Betcha I could take ya any day!"

He stared at the point of the blade hovering just before his nose. "Er… will not be necessary, I assure you… now… I believe it is your turn to introduce yourselves? Only polite, you know…"

Riala replaced her dagger and nodded to Malaya, who sheathed her rapier with a sigh. "I am Riala Goldentail. This is Malaya of the Wanderers of Mossflower. And the birdbrain over there," she motioned to the fieldfare fluttering in to land among them, "is Pilaris Arrowflight."

"Well!" Malcan flourished an elegant bow. "Well met, Lady Goldentail, Sir Arrowflight…" He turned to Malaya and his bow deepened. "Lady Malaya."

"Just Riala, kit," she growled. "Don't like formalities." Riala glanced to Pilar, who was preening under the respect and title. That certainly wasn't surprising, but the way Malaya's nosetip reddened and her eyes lowered in blushing modesty was _quite _the surprise. _What, Malaya's subject to flattery? Who would have known…?_

"So, uhmmm…" Malaya shifted from footpaw to footpaw. "Anythin' we can do ta help ya?"

Malcan straightened, stood himself even taller. "Nay, I require nothing, for I am a great warrior and—" The growl of his stomach drew snickers from all threebeasts surrounding him, and now it was the proud young squirrel's turn to redden. "Er…"

Malaya laughed and reached into her haversack, pulling out two oatcakes and a canteen of water. She handed both to Malcan. "Here, you seem hung…ry…" She faltered as the oatcakes disappeared in three quick bites, leaving crumbs on Malcan's whiskers and fine jerkin. "Very hungry…"

He gulped down water, swiped his paw across his face, and dusted off his clothes as he handed back the canteen. "Thankyouverymuch," he gasped out, drawing in breath after the long drink. "Was a bit thirsty and hungry, I guess."

"Just a bit?" Riala shook her head with the slightest of smiles. "Well. I suppose younglings are all the same…" A slow breath, let out in a sigh, and she shifted her roce at her side. "Now… you mentioned a Castle Floret…?"

"Oh, aye. A large castle a few days west and south of here." He paused, glanced to the side, and shifted his weight. "Er, but… you don't want to go there. Nothing to see, very boring really…"

Riala and Malaya barely heard him. "Ya think they've heard about th' Longclaws?" Malaya asked the older squirrel.

Riala frowned and nodded. "Likely… at any rate, a castle out in these flatlands is _bound _to attract attention from the Longclaws… never known him to lay siege, but a castle means population, which means something to raid…"

Malcan looked from squirrel to squirrel. "Uhm… Longclaws? Siege? Raid? What are you talking about?"

"We're trackin' a wolverine," Malaya explained as Riala grimaced. "Leadin' a big horde of vermin an' all, ya know? An' he likes pillagin' and burnin' and stuff. So if there's a place like a castle, he might want ta attack it."

"…attack… Castle Floret…?" Malcan looked stunned for a moment, then started laughing. "He will never succeed. The otterguard are too strong, the castle too well defended."

A humorless smile stretched a thin line across Riala's face. "You don't know the Longclaws…"

Malcan looked from Riala to Malaya and back again, his grin fading. "You're… serious, aren't you?" At their impassive stares, he swallowed hard. "Well… umm… I suppose… someone ought to warn the castle…" A long deep breath. "Which means… you'll be needing…" He grimaced. "…a guide."

"That would be helpful," Riala agreed.

The young squirrel sighed. "Well… in the morning, or do we start off now?"

Riala glanced at the horizon, now showing only the faintest streak of light. "I don't know about you, but we've been on the move all day. Malaya and Pilar, at least, need rest… they aren't used to this."

"Neither're _you, _anymore!" Malaya protested. "Betcha haven't done a long march since comin' ta Redwall!"

Riala did her best to ignore that comment, turning instead to the silent Pilar. "Did you see anything in the way of shelter?"

The bird's slate beak clicked. "Nonono, _told _foolbeasts already! Notrees, nocover, no hideplaces!" His feathers fluffed out. "Notgoodness."

"Well…" Riala sighed. "I suppose we'll be camping here then… No fire. Let's just get some sleep and take shifts… who wants first?"

Malaya rubbed her eyes. "I guess it'd be good ta get it over with an' all… I'll go first."

"You'll stay awake the entire time?"

The squirrelmaid winced, shifted from footpaw to footpaw. "…Aye. An' if I'm feelin' too drowsylike, I'll wake ya up."

Riala nodded. "Good." With that, she walked away a few lengths, flattened a bed of grasses, and curled up to a light sleep.

Malaya, Pilar, and Malcan watched her blankly for a moment, then Pilar bobbed his head to Malaya. "I sleeplike too. Keepgood watchlike! Nowant surprisethings…" His words drifted off into a yawn, and he hopped away to find a sleeping spot.

Which left just Malaya and Malcan.

"Um…" He looked about the featureless grasslands. "Well… I suppose I ought to be sleeping as well… I fear I am none too tired, however."

Malaya smiled a little. "Trust me, yer gonna wanna get all th' sleep ya can. With Ria as a taskmistress…"

Malcan's head tilted. "Aye, Riala Goldentail. What is the problem between the two of you? At moments you seem close friends; at others, utter strangers."

"…It's… hard ta explain…" Malaya's face darkened and she looked down, before remembering her sentry duties and returning her gaze to the plains. "We're friends, sorta… I think… but…" A long sigh, heavy with the pain of Riala's cold words. "Sometimes… she just gets dark an' hard, ya know? 'Specially when th' wolverine comes up in talk… so… I dunno." She drew in a deep breath. "But ya need sleep. An' I need ta be watchin' for danger an' whatnot."

The other squirrel watched her for a long moment, silhouetted there against the moon, a lonely youngling thrust into a role she was perhaps not yet ready for. When Malcan left to sleep, Malaya didn't turn from her watch, but an observer might have caught the silver gleam of starlight off a single tear rolling down her cheek to moisten the earth.

Pawsteps sounded outside Kiern's tent as morning stretched on into day. "Enter," the stoat said before the approacher had the chance to rap knuckles on the tent pole. A moment's pause, and then the sable form of Swiftblade slipped into the tent. There was the usual exchange of salutes, and then Kiern buckled down to business.

"What do you know of the vixen Bloodmoon?"

The ferret frowned. "Noo more'n most… she be a good enow bladebeast, I ken, but… th' lass be a strange one."

"…Strange?" Kiern echoed. "How so?"

"Well…" He laughed a little, but nervousness made it sound forced. "She… _sees _things. In flame, in water, stones, bones, whate'er."

Kiern snorted. "A 'seer'. I've meet some—all flash and little truth. A few powders that burn red or green, a lot of dancing and chanting, then useless vague words and an enormous price. Foolishness."

"Aheh, well, there be th' strange thing… she dinnae be a-doin' any o' that. She just goes all blank-eyed an' speaks in a voice like outta Dark Forest, an' whate'er she says be almost always true. Most times she stays away from t'other hordebeasts, an' we leave _her _alone tae…" A crooked smile, half-hearted. "Pretty enow lass, but she just ent quite right in th' soul, ye ken?"

Kiern's brow furrowed. "And the Longclaws wants her in his personal guard…?"

Swiftblade shrugged. "Weel, she _do _be havin' fine skills with th' scimitar, an' she be loyal as all tae th' Longclaws. She were close-like tae Stormsong, an' holds nae love for… Sharshek." The name twisted on the ferret's tongue like rotten fruit.

"Hmm…" A nod. "Very well. Thank you, Swiftblade. Dismissed."

Another exchange of salutes, and Kiern looked thoughtfully at the tent flap without really seeing it. _This…Bloodmoon… sounds quite interesting. And mayhap adequate for the Nightclaws… if these "visions" of hers aren't too disruptive…_

With a decisive nod, the stoat ducked out of the tent and headed towards the Nighteyes camp.

A quick hike and a few brief questions led him to an isolated fire on the outskirts of camp. A deep red vixen sat before it with her back to him, spooning stew from a bowl.

"Excuse me… are you the Nighteye called Bloodmoon?"

She rose, turned to face him with a silent salute. "Aye, sir," she said, voice soft and melodic, like a nightbird's song to the gibbous moon. Kiern studied her for a moment, weighing her in his mind. Certainly attractive enough, in the manner of vixens—thick red coat, darkening nearly to black at the ears and finely tapered muzzle; star-pale throat and tailtip; a fit form concealed by a black tunic and a faded grey cloak.

Not much different from any other attractive vixen—except for the eyes. Stormsky blue, shade of the blind, but her gaze met his as one with perfect vision. Beyond perfect… for there was something _otherworldly _about that intense sapphirine gaze. Something… discomfortingly unnatural…

He shook his head to clear it of the disconcerting fog. "How did you come to join the Nighthunt?"

A soft smile, a slow nod. "It is simple. My sister died of sickness; I could not heal her. I wandered in a fog until beset by thieves, rats looking to steal what little I had… The Longclaws came and killed them all, then asked me to join the Nighthunt." She laughed, suddenly. "And nay, guardcaptain, t'was not your usual recruiting ploy. I have asked about and _seen _this truth."

Kiern frowned. "How did you know about the recruiting…?"

Those eerie eyes fixed on his, seeming almost to glow with strange inner fire, and Kiern looked away, swallowing the sudden discomfort. "I… see. And your fighting skills?"

A flash of amusement in the stormsky gaze, and her scimitar shimmered in her paw. "I can demonstrate, if you wish."

Kiern nodded and drew forth his own saber. The two shifted to battleready, sketching salutes—and clashed.

Steel rang bell-like on steel, once and twice with sunlight flickering off polished blades, and the vixen and the stoat broke apart, each regarding the other. _Not bad, _Kiern thought. _Not bad at all…_

As if by a signal, they rushed each other again, steel screaming its clanging warcry. Parry, block, thrust; step back as the vixen's scimitar swipes for the belly, and forward in a lunge for her side; dodging, blocking, backing off, then shift to offensive to force _her _to parry…

A slip: a misstep, brief imbalance, and Kiern drove through the gap in the dance of steel, forcing Bloodmoon further off kilter, and his blade nicked the starpale throat.

They stood there for a moment, panting, and then Kiern withdrew his blade in a respectful salute. The vixen returned it, sheathed her scimitar with a long slow breath.

"You fight well," Kiern said. "Like a dancer."

"Or a dream," she responded, but paid no attention to Kiern's questioning gaze. She shook her head, then raised that otherworldly gaze to pierce and hold his.

"I am utterly loyal to Nightdeath Longclaws," Bloodmoon said, low and intense as if trying to tattoo the truth and forcefulness of her words into Kiern's soul. "He saved my life—and my mind. I owe him much."

Kiern nodded at last, slow and a bit unnereved. "I think… I think I see that." A salute, breaking from her gaze with effort. "If you wish, you are welcome to join the ranks of the Nightclaws."

The vixen's eyes closed for a long moment; Kiern nearly jumped when they snapped open. She bowed low. "I accept…"

It took about an hour to procure the vixen a Nightclaws uniform and introduce her to the ranks; that done, Kiern set out to search for the Longclaws' familiar midnight form. Not inside his tent; well, that wasn't too unusual. The wolverine often made rounds among the horde, sometimes taking his own scouting trips (with his guards hard-put to keep up…). _Although one of the Nightclaws would tell me if he decided to do that…_

Screaming protests, coarse laughter, and the sounds of struggle jerked Kiern's attention to a circle of tents by the Nightblood encampment. _Seasons… what have the bloodthirsty assassins caught this time…? _He grimaced and headed towards Veneno's tent, the seeming source of the sounds. He didn't bother to knock, simply brushed by the sneering guards and ducked into the tent.

There was Veneno, flat amber eyes grinning over a pair of bruised and beaten otters bound to twin posts in the spacious tent's center. And Deathcry, gnawing on yet another bone, a low giggling coursing from her throat, dagger tickling the female's dark throat. And… Nightdeath Longclaws…

The wolverine looked up as Kiern entered, and a smile flickered across the angular face. "Ah, good; I was just about to send one of the Nightblood to bring you here."

Kiern looked from male otter to female otter, to Veneno, to Deathcry, and finally to his chief. "What is all this?"

"Veneno's assassins captured these two, apparently scouts, not far from the castle," the Longclaws said.

The male otter snarled. "Never would've caught us if 'e hadn't used _poison!"_

Veneno leaned in close, smirking in the otter's face. "We're _vermin, _aren't we? I thought that was _expected _of us…"

The otter strained against his tight bonds, glaring utter murder. "Scum… dishonorable stinkin' _pike…_"

A sigh from the Longclaws. "At any rate… I want you, Veneno, and Deathcry to interrogate these two. Use whatever methods necessary—" and the fox and ferret grinned with bloodthirst "—but do not kill them. They will still prove useful. Kiern, you know what questions to ask; Veneno and Deathcry will make sure these two answer."

Kiern's mouth thinned to a tight line. "I must work with… them?"

"Aye." The flat ebon gaze fixed on Kiern's. "I raised you a bit _too _honorable, it seems… We must be hard, oftentimes. Woodlanders are not worthy of the same honorable treatment as _our _kind. And methods must sometimes be harsh… Do you understand?"

Anger burned within, but the guardcaptain lowered his gaze and nodded. "…Aye. I understand."

A curt nod. "I'll be in my tent. Meet me there when you've all the information you can extract." With that last and a salute, Nightdeath Longclaws strode from the tent, and Kiern stared blankly at the ground.

A cry of pain jerked his gaze up to the two otters. Veneno was tickling the female with his scythe, cutting thin lines of blood here and there, while the male raged at his bonds. Kiern's jaw clenched and he grasped Veneno's scythe, pulled it away with a glare.

"I have not begun questioning," he said, barely holding back a snarl. "No need to start your torturing already."

Veneno snickered and pulled away, bowing with mock respect. Kiern grimaced and turned to the otters, who stared at him with eyes full of hatred.

"Let's just get formalities out of the way first… What are your names?"

More glaring.

Kiern sighed. "I am Kiern, this is Veneno, that's Deathcry. Your turn."

No answer from the otters.

Deathcry giggled, high-pitched and eerie. "Ssshould I _take _the anssswer from them?"

"Deathcry… no." A grimace. "Simply names, otters…"

"Unless you'd rather we call you Bloody and Agonized," Veneno said.

Kiern glared at him for silence. "It is no difficulty to give us your names, and compromises nothing. What would we do with that?"

The female otter snorted. "Tell Castle Floret ye've captured us?"

A shrug. "Don't need your names for that; we can just as easily bind you and drag you in sight of them."

The male snarled and struggled forward as if to attempt to rip Kiern's throat out, but the female held up a paw. "No, th' stoat speaks true enow…" A nod. "I be Hyacinth, an' this be Strongpaw."

Deathcry chuckled and sidled up to the male, looking him up and down. "Aye, I can sssee why he wasss named Ssstrongpaw…"

"Enough, Deathcry…" Kiern's teeth ground together in frustration. "So the two of you are scouts for this 'Castle Floret'?" More glowering, and Kiern breathed out a sigh. "Why are you being so _difficult?!"_

Strongpaw snarled. "We've _honor, _scum! We'd protect our home despite _anythin', _no matter _what _ye'll do te us! An' if protectin' it means not answerin' a question out of yer mouth, then so be it!"

A low laugh from Veneno. "Death thinks this is where _our _job begins, guardcaptain…"

Kiern opened his mouth to protest, then shut it with a click of teeth. _Have to… allow this… _So he forced his attention on the two otters and the two torturers, stomach twisting into knots.

Veneno slid over to Hyacinth, leering inches from her face. "Deathcry… think these two are mates…?"

"Yesss… I sssaw them before, when they thought none were watching…" A sadistic giggle. "Yesss, they—care much for each other…"

The black fox raised an eyebrow. "Well… Death knows the power in _that…_" He cast a laughing glance Strongpaw's way, and a dagger appeared in his paw, blade caressing the female otter's cheek with blood. She stiffened, eyeing the blade in motionless silence. "A pretty one, for a woodlander, is she not?"

Kiern's mouth thinned. _This is… disgusting…_

"Ssso, woodlander… will you cooperate with usss… or mussst we have our fun with your love there…?"

Strongpaw glared daggers at Deathcry, whose chewing bone tickled his jaw. "Ye sick vermin…" A whimper jerked his gaze to Hyacinth and the blade digging ever deeper in its designs along her cheek, her neck, her shoulder… She shuddered with pain and revulsion as Veneno's tongue licked out to lap the blood from her face. The male otter hissed with fury. _"Stop it!"_

Deathcry smirked in Kiern's direction. "Asssk your questions, _sssir…"_

"…right…" Kiern swallowed bile from a cotton-dry mouth. "How many guard Castle Floret?"

A snarl. "I'll never tell ye that!"

The stoat's eyes closed as a strangled cry erupted from Hyacinth; Veneno's blade had traveled down from her throat to her navel, slicing a thin line of blood and slitting open her tunic. _Just focus on asking questions… _"What species guard the castle?"

_"Stop hurting her!" _growled from the male otter.

"How are they armed?"

The female otter's cries grew to a sobbing scream. Kiern's eyes snapped open to see Veneno's paw on her dangling wrist. _He broke it…? _

"_Hyacinth!"_

Deathcry laughed, eerie and empty. "Ask away, guardcaptain…"

"…Who leads the castle…" Hiding a flinch at the agonized gasps from the female. "How are they guarded… What is the method of defense in case of an attack…"

"What… what are you doing?!"

Kiern opened his eyes again, reluctantly, at Strongpaw's horrified question. Veneno's blade was venturing lower still, below the female's waist, slicing off her trousers. "Veneno… What are you doing?" The stoat's voice was quiet, commanding, although he already knew the answer.

The fox glanced Kiern's way with a smirk. "Thought the otter was supposed to answer questions… not Death…"

"Answer me, Veneno!"

A theatrical sigh. "If you must know, mortal… Death is encouraging them both to speak. You see, riverdog…" He winked at Strongpaw. "Mayhap you could withstand against your pain, your death… and maybe even the torture and death of your love… but Death knows there are some things you weak woodlanders never even think of…"

"…Get out."

Veneno's eyes widened briefly and he turned to face Kiern. "What did you say?"

"Get out of the tent," the stoat said, even and quiet. "Let me speak with the otters. Alone."

Ferret and fox exchanged glances, then nods, then sketched mocking salutes to the guardcaptain and ducked out of the tent, leaving Kiern alone with the two otters.

All was silent except for the male's heaving breath, heavy with rage, and the female's gasping sobs as she cradled her snapped wrist. Kiern drew a long slow breath to calm himself, and a second one.

"I don't believe you understand," he said at last. "Deathcry and Veneno are… the most bloodthirsty sadists I have ever met. And they know how to keep a victim alive for… a very long time… "

Strongpaw straightened in his bonds, defiance lighting his rough features. "Don't matter, scum. Nothin'll make us betray Castle Floret."

_"Dammit, _otter!" Nearly a shout and Kiern bit back on his helpless anger, forced it to quiet. "You think they're going to just slice the two of you up? Break a few bones, rip open skin until you collapse from the pain?" A snarl. "Veneno and Deathcry are _beyond _that! They'll feed you plants that'll have you so confused you won't know what's real or what's hallucination. They'll starve you and then force you to eat again. They'll have you in days of agony without making barely a mark on you. And you think you can outlast that?!"

Hyacinth forced herself upright. "Aye. We can. We will. We _must._"

The scorn in his eyes lashed across her. "Have you ever been raped, otter?"

Shock slackened her jaw. "Wha—what?!"

"You _wouldn't!" _Shouted from Strongpaw, who raged against his bonds with more determined ferocity than ever before. "Ye hellbound _scum! _Ye filthy half-drowned _vermin!!"_

_ "Enough." _Kiern glared at the male otter. "No, _I _would not do something like that! I have prevented my command from doing such more than once! But I am not in command of Veneno or Deathcry or _their _command. And they _would _rape her. More than once, and more than one creature, and they would force you to watch. They might even rape _you, _Strongpaw. Is _that _what you wish?!"

Scorn slashed from Hyacinath's gaze. "'E called ye honorable. Th' wolverine."

"…Aye."

A harsh laugh. "Then you have a strange sense of honor, stoat…"

Kiern frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"As long as it isn't ye doin' th' deed, then yer paws're clean, is that it?" The female otter shook her head, gritting her teeth at the sudden rush of pain from her wounded neck. "But ent it true if ye can stop a thing, an' ye don't, then yer just as guilty and filthy as th' one who 'olds th' knife…?"

The stoat's eyes widened a little, and his paws curled at his sides. "I…"

He was saved from having to answer by the reentrance of Veneno and Deathcry. "Hope your little talk is over, Kiern," Veneno said with a smirk, "because we're ready to work again…"

Kiern turned away, stomach twisting, gaze fixing on the ground as pawsteps sounded behind him. Clothing ripping, rustling, falling; Strongpaw's shouted protests, useless threats; empty laughter, cruel giggles…

"What wasss hisss firssst quessstion, male…?" Deathcry, whispered over Hyacinth's cries. "How many guard the cassstle?"

_"Stop touchin' her… don't touch her like that…"_

"What speciesss?"

_"Get away from her…"_

"Who leadsss it?"

_"Stop… please stop…!"_

"How are the leadersss guarded?"

_ "STRONGPAW…!" _Hyacinth's scream, Veneno's laughter, and Kiern knew by the ragged breaths that he was beyond simple touches…

"What isss the defenssse?"

_"STOP IT! HYACIIIINTH!"_

Kiern's eyes squeezed shut, his claws dug deep into his pawpads. _This is… wrong… _The female's words echoed in his mind. _'If you can stop a thing, and you don't, then you're just as guilty as the paw that holds the blade.' _The screaming grew louder, longer, intermingled with laughter and rhythmic gasps, with sobbing cries, with howling protests, helpless threats.

And Kiern remained motionless, frozen by uncertainties, by duty, by ingrained obedience to a dark voice and ebon gaze.

_'…just as guilty and filthy as the one that holds the knife…'_

Kiern had spoken true to the otters: They were not able to withstand against Veneno and Deathcry's ruthless attentions. He soon had the answers to his questions… and he fled the tent the instant he ran dry of questions, paw clutching the parchment with the information that the Longclaws needed.

At the entrance to the Longclaws' tent he stopped, drew in a long slow breath to loosen the tightness in his stomach and his throat. _Calm… _Another deep breath, and finally he stepped across the threshold.

"Sir." An exchange of salutes. "The information you required."

The wolverine took the parchment, barely glancing at it. "Aye. Good." A sidelong look at the stoat. "An' had ye much trouble with th' otters?"

Kiern forced himself not to flinch. "A bit."

"Oh?"

He swallowed. "Veneno and one of his assassins had to… rape the female… before either would talk."

"Ahh." The slightest of smiles. "That be explainin' th' sick look on yon face of yours…"

"…It shows…?"

Nightdeath shook his head. "Only tae one who knows ye well enow," he said. "Ye be utterly repulsed, aye? Wonderin' why I be makin' ye do such?"

Kiern closed his eyes and nodded. "Aye, sir."

"Aye." The Longclaws leaned back against the tent's center pole. "Ye're tae soft, Captain. Ye've a stomach that turns at torture an' rape, an' seein' I be allowin' it, e'en orderin' it, ye've been doubtin' me. Fighting 'honor' an' loyalty tae me."

The stoat's eyes widened and he met the wolverine's ebon gaze. "What…"

A chuckle. "I ken ye better'n ye ken, Kiern… I raised ye, after all." A sigh. "We live in rough times, an' we be surrounded by rough types. Coarse types. T'would be grand tae not need tae kill, or torture, or rape… but 'tis needed, at times. Would ye use a smile on an adder, or would ye use a blade quick, afore it could bite ye?"

"…A blade, of course…"

"An' 'tis th' same with anythin' else, _especially _leadin' a horde. Ye must be ruthless, kill before ye can be killed, gather information any way necessary so fewer of _yours _need die. Do ye understand?"

Kiern drew in a deep breath. _Do what you must, so that fewer of your own die? Minimize losses in any way possible… _"I understand, sir. Thank you."

The Longclaws nodded with a glimmer of a smile. "Good… I knew ye would. Away with ye, then; do what ye must among the Nightclaws. Check on that new Nightclaw, shift the guard… ye ken what tae be doin'." A slight frown. "Oh… an' I did hear that ye and Astarte be on th' outs for some reason or another… Ye _shall _find another stoat to sleep with at nights, will ye not?"

He barely withheld a flinch. _I like that not… but… _He swallowed his reservations. "Aye, sir."

"Good. Off with ye, then." The Longclaws turned away to his paperwork, and Kiern knew he was dismissed. A salute to the wolverine's back, and he ducked out of the tent, teeth gritting against the unsavory task ahead.


	17. Castle Floret

Vengeance Quest Chapter 17: Castle Floret 

The next afternoon found the three squirrels trudging across the endless plains. They'd made excellent time, but the stress of being without cover or trees wore on their morale, and it didn't help that they were running low on water. Or supplies…

_Never expected to be far from a food source, _Riala thought, frustrated. _How does the Longclaws keep a whole horde fed?!_

She winced as the answer flashed across her mind. No need to wonder—skeletons of birds and fish and even occasional mice had turned up on the trail, long ago, when she'd first hunted the horde. And creatures complaining of raided foodstores, trampled gardens, emptied pantries…

"_Skreeeee! _Furbeasts, stopbeasts!"

The three squirrels drew to a halt as the familiar shape of Pilaris arced across the sun. He fluttered to a landing, feathers fluffed with agitation.

"What did you find?" Riala asked.

His beak clacked. "Manybeasts. Evilbeasts…" A screech. "Wolverinescum!"

Riala's eyes widened and her roce was in her paw before she'd realized she'd drawn it. "_Longclaws! _Where?!"

Pilar stared, aghast at the bared fangs and the battlelight in gold-brown eyes. "What, you fight? Now?" A laugh. "You diequick if try, foolbrush!"

A snarl ripped from Riala's throat, and she stepped towards the bird. A firm small paw clasped her shoulder and she whirled to see Malaya's concerned face.

"Ya can't fight th' Longclaws on yer own, Ria!"

The grin on Riala's face resembled a skull's death-smirk. "Can't I?"

"Not allhorde!" Pilar squawked. "Scores and scores! Can't killall, fightall! Would _die!"_

"Um…" Malcan's voice, timid and uncertain. "I do not know this Longclaws, but even if his horde were utterly incompetent, one squirrel—or even three and a bird—would not be able to defeat such odds."

Riala whirled on him with a growl. "Then what do _ye _suggest we be doin', lad?!"

"Eheh…" He stood his ground, though he looked as if he'd rather flee. "Well, Castle Floret is well fortified, with a well-trained Otterguard. I am certain that the Squirrelking and Squirrelqueen would be glad to aid you…"

"We'd stand a chance that way, Ria!" Malaya said, almost pleading with the older squirrel.

Riala's mouth twisted as she stared in the direction Pilar had flown from, almost longingly. A sigh, and finally she turned back to the small group. "Very well… I suppose ye be correct…" She glanced to the fieldfare. "How far tae th' castle?"

"Notlong flyways… Nogood stayhere, nogood goslow—hordescouts allover! Gofast, nostop, nosleep… reach castlething at moonhigh?"  
A gusty sigh from Malcan. "No rest for the weary… My poor footpads will be bleeding if we go any quicker!"

Malaya poked his stomach. "Ya might lose that babyfat, lazybeast!" He stuck his tongue out at her and she grinned. "C'mon, we've been goin' _slow. _Ria's pace is usually lots faster, ya know."

"No, I do not know," Malcan said, stiffening. "And I am _not _lazy."

"Hmph, well, coulda fooled me…" Malaya shrugged and turned to Pilar. "Lead th' way, feathers!"

"Notfeathers! Feathers is _sisterbird! _Stupidbird, bossybird…" Grumbling, Pilar took to the air, and the three squirrels half-jogged after him.

They traveled in silence for a long while, too focused on the rhythm of pounding paws and the regulation of breathing to speak. But as Malcan dropped back, heaving, Malaya slowed to keep pace, casting him a concerned glance. "Ya doin' all right, Malky?"

"Do not… call me… Malky," he panted, the rhythm of his pace stumbling to irregularity.

She frowned. "Paws hurtin', or just getting' tired-like?"

He glared. "How… can you… keep this _pace?!"_

"Well, I couldn't at first…" A grin and a shrug. "Had ta do worse'n this afore Ria and Shadow freed me."

"Freed?" Malcan forgot his exhauston for a moment, looking at her quizzically. "From what?"

Malaya looked to the ground for a long moment, at the golden grasses folding beneath her footpaws. "I was a slave… Ever since I could remember afore Riala freed me."

Malcan's step faltered with the rush of shock. "You… you were… a _slave?" _He found his stride again and caught up to her, gasping out words between ragged breaths. "But… you do not… act like it!"

"Act like it?" One eyebrow arched high. "Like everybeast should pity me? Or weak an' servantlike? Or what?"

"Like…" He struggled for clarification. "I—met an otter once… who had been… a slave. He was—empty. As if… he had been… killed inside. You… you are the opposite! You are… so full… of life!"

Malaya's tail twitched a little and her gaze returned to the shifting ground. "I was empty, too. Didn't care if I lived'r died. I think… I think it's why Ria took me in."

"What, she… pitied you?" Malcan stared at the rust-gold brush several lengths ahead. "She seems not… the type… to pity."

"No, she's not… it wasn't pity." A sad smile etched its way across Malaya's face. "She's empty-like too. Only thing keepin' _her _so alive an' fightin' is her hate fer th' wolverine, I think…"

Malcan frowned a little. "But… she seems like… she cares about you, sometimes… She watched you… sleep last night… and didn't seem… cold for… once."

"…maybe." Malaya didn't look up. "Maybe…"

"Screeheehee!" A gleeful call from above, and Pilar circled overhead. "Woodtrees, hillwoods! Then castlething and cliffstuffs and saltlake!"

"Ha!" Malcan said. "The valley, the castle, the cliffs, and the sea! The bird was right—we should be there by midnight."

"Trees!" The relief in Riala's rough voice rang clear. "Finally get some cover…"

Malaya nodded. "And some rest!"

The promise of journey's end lent a spring to the squirrels' step. Flat grasslands gave way to hilly scrub, and in the distance, Riala's sharp gaze picked out the lush dark green of forest and the tall shadow of a soaring building.

The sun had long set by the time they reached the cover of the woods. Pilar was waiting for them, perched on an overhanging limb, singing his heart out. Malaya let out a cry of delight and ran to the nearest tree, hugging the oak like a shipwrecked sailor might embrace the long-lost earth. Even Riala smiled, relaxed a little, placed a calloused paw on a beech's straight silver trunk.

The only one who didn't seem thrilled to reach the treeline was Malcan. He eyed the leafshadow with distrust and reluctance. "Well, you can find your way from here, so I shall be leaving…"

Riala's eyes flashed. "Oh no you won't!" She grabbed his tail and he yelped as he was brought up short. "I still don't trust you. You're hiding something and I want to know what it is!"

He opened his mouth to protest, or perhaps to explain, but a javelin burying its point a hair's breadth from Riala's footpaw interrupted.

"Release Prince Malcan!"

Riala whirled, roce in paw, gaze raking the woods. Malaya stared at the wincing Malcan, dumbfounded.

"_Prince?!"_

"Eheh…" His ears flattened back. "Well…"

A brawny otter stepped out of the treeshadow, javelin at paw. He glared at Riala. "Release the prince. _Now. _Lest you get a javelin buried in yer heart!"

Malcan heaved a sigh and stepped forward. "It is well, Swiftrudd… They are friends."

The otter motioned with his javelin at Riala's scarred paw still grasping Malcan's red brush. "Then why does she hold you captive?"

Riala tugged on Malcan's tail; he yelped protest. "The brat was trying to run off," she growled, glowering at the squirrelprince. "And you've just told me why. _Prince?!"_

"Well…" A nervous laugh. "Yes… I suppose I forgot to mention that…"

Malaya snorted. "Convenient."

The otter frowned, and now his javelin aimed at Malcan. "You weren't going to return!"

Malcan winced and raised his paws. "I _was _going to! …eventually…"

"If you didn't die first!" Swiftrudd took an angry step towards the squirrelprince. "Do you have _any idea _how worried we've all been?! Captain Sandor has the _entire guard _searching for you! Yer mother is worrying herself sick! The squirrelking isn't fit to be around! All because you wanted to _go adventuring?!"_

Malcan cowered before the otter's fury. "I… left a note…"

"Oh, aye, I _know _about that bloody note! Who _doesn't?! _'Goodbye, all! I'm off for adventure to prove myself a true warrior. I shall return when I have done so.' Faugh! You haven't the skill to survive out there! You're lucky these two squirrels helped you out!"

Riala sighed and released Malcan's tailbrush. "If you're _quite _finished scolding him… We need to speak with the squirrelking and queen."

Swiftrudd whirled on her. "What? Why?"

A grimace. "We have news that they'd be… very interested in. An impending attack by a vermin horde…"

"An _attack?" _Swiftrudd's rudder slammed on the earth. "Well blow me over! I'll take you to the castle at once! And don't you _dare _try sneaking off, you brat of a prince…" He snagged Malcan's poor abused tail as the squirrelprince tried edging away. "You're _not _escaping what the captain and your parents'll have in store for you…!"

Malcan sighed and cast a piteous look Malaya's way. "I was afraid of that…"

The squirrelmaid just shook her head and laughed. "Ya got yerself into this one… _prince!"_

They reached the castle as the crescent moon arched high overhead, and Riala could do little but stare. Redwall had been an amazing sight, but _this…! _A sheer cliff towered flush against the north wall, and the other three cream-hued walls stood watch behind a wide moat the same shape as the moon. The drawbridge, lowered for now, covered near to a third of the south side. Emerald ivy, golden saxifrage, red and pink roses—climbing plants of every hue crawled up the walls, lounged out the windows, caressed the ramparts. Magnificent, even in the pale light of the dying moon.

"The Longclaws might be in over his cursed head here," Riala murmured, admiring the castle's strategic placement. "Once the drawbridge is up, he'd be hard put to enter!"

Swiftrudd nodded, pride obvious in his gaze and voice. "Only time any vermin ever conquered Floret was through treachery, and we won it back, didn't we?"

Two otters met them at the drawbridge, and brown eyes widened at the sight of Malcan, tail still held tight in Swiftrudd's paw.

"Is that—it is! Bitin' barnacles, it's Prince Malcan!"

The second otter ran back inside, yelling all the way. "Ring the Warrior's Bell! Swiftrudd's found Prince Malcan! He's back!"

A bell clanged in the distance, and the three squirrels were ushered into the castle. Pilar fluttered just behind, squawking admonishments at the otters who tried to stop him.

"Stupid riverbeasts, waterdogs, mudforears! I Pilaris Arrowflight, bestest of birds! I _friend! _Am with prettybrush and goldtail! Notouch, greasypaws!"

The otters led them up the sprawling staircase to the grand throneroom with its rich ruby carpet, ornate oak-and-silver thrones, sconces curling from the wall to illume the spacious room. Two squirrels bounded from a side entrance, and a burly otter emerged from the opposite one, all clad in white nightclothes.

"Malcan!" the female squirrel cried, rushing up to him and gripping the prince in a tight embrace. "Oh, dear seasons, I was so scared something had _happened _to you…!"

"Malc, thank the seasons you are safe, son!" This from the male squirrel, his red fur graying about the ears and whiskers. "Whatever possessed you to run off like that…"

The hugging and kissing and crying and scolding continued for a few minutes more as Riala, Malaya, and Pilar stood awkwardly by. More otters had spilled out of the adjacent rooms and hallways until a full twoscore otters stood in the throneroom, whispering amongst themselves.

Then a roar silenced everybeast. "_Prince Malcan!"_

The young squirrelprince winced beneath his parents' embraces. The king and queen released him, suddenly grim, and moved aside to leave him to face the otter's wrath.

A burly sable otter stepped down the stairs, dark brown eyes glaring at the squirrelprince. Even in a nightgown, an aura of raw strength and power and _command _surrounded him, and Malcan could not meet that fiery glare.

"Prince Malcan! Rise and look at me like the warrior you wish to become!" the otter thundered.

Malcan swallowed hard and lifted his gaze to meet the otter's, pulling himself to his footpaws and standing as straight as possible. "Yes, Captain Sandor?"

The otter towered over the squirrelprince, arms crossed over his barrel of a chest. "Your note said you wished to prove yourself a warrior. But racing off as you did, leaving us to worry, forcing me to spread the guard thin…!"

"I…"

Sandor plowed right over Malcan's feeble protests. "A _warrior _would never be so irresponsible. A _warrior _would never be so thoughtless. A _warrior _wouldn't put somebeast else in danger merely for his own _pride!"_

All the defiance whooshed from Malcan with his breath. He hung his head, ears drooping, tail going limp. "I… am sorry, Captain…"

The otter scrutinized him for a long moment, then turned to the squirrelking and queen. "What punishment do you think fits his crime?"

The squirrelking frowned. "Perhaps a week under Caldrin the Historian's tutelage…"

"Or a month cleaning the library," the squirrelqueen suggested.

Captain Sandor glared down at the wilting squirrelprince. "I think a month, alternating between myself and Caldrin, to teach him the _true _meaning of a warrior."

Nods all around, and Malcan's ears flattened. "A _month?!" _He cowered under the sudden force of too many glares. "I mean… yes, captain! Gladly!"

"Ah, not to interrupt," Swiftrudd said, stepping forward, "but we've visitors…"

The squirrelqueen's eyes widened as she took in Malaya, Riala, and Pilar, and she looked down at her nightgown. "Oh dear me, in _this _attire…?" The squirrelking elbowed her and she nodded, drawing herself up.

"Welcome, visitors of our fair kingdom of Southsward. I am Queen Sydelle Oakrune, and this is my mate, King Audric Oakrune. You have, I believe, already met our son, Prince Malcan Oakrune."

"Aye," Riala said dryly. "I'm afraid we have. Found him half-dehydrated in the grasslands…" A nod. "I am Riala Goldentail. This," and she motioned to Malaya, who bowed her head in uncertain greeting, "is Malaya of the Wanderers of Mossflower. And this—"

Pilar stepped forward, spreading his wings in a somehow elegant bow. "Pilaris Arrowflight, fieldfare and bestest of birds!"

Riala withheld a grin at the bird's ego. "We've come from up Mossflower way, tracking the horde of the wolverine Nightdeath Longclaws." Her gaze sharpened, pierced into Sandor's. "Have you seen sign of such?"

Sandor frowned. "Nay… the usual vermin here and there, but that's it…"

"Daymarch, halfday maybe," Pilar said, hopping forward. "Notfar… horde could comequick."

Sandar exchanged concerned glances with the squirrelking and queen. "Raise the drawbridge?"

Audric shook his head. "Not just yet… there are those outside who must take refuge within the castle first. But tell the otterguard to be wary, and ring the alarm."

A nod, and the burly otter turned to the other otters in the throne room. "You heard the king—make ready!" he roared. "Double duty! Call in the rest of the guard! Leave the drawbridge down, but prepare for attack!"

Riala rubbed her ringing ears and glanced over at Sydelle and Audric, who were calmly removing their paws from tufted ears—they'd expected the otter's volume. Sandor turned to Riala and Pilar. "You, Goldentail—and you, fieldfare. Follow me. We've got a defense to plan." He turned away after the king and queen. Riala shrugged and followed, with Pilar hopping along behind her.

"W-wait! What about me?" Malaya yelped, scurrying after them. "I'm a warrior too!"

"You're inexperienced and young," Riala said, cold and firm. "Stay behind."

"Captain! I led them here!" Malcan protested. "Can I not come?"

Sandor glared over his shoulder. "_You," _he rumbled, "are still in deep trouble! Stay here. Swiftrudd—guard the prince and the squirrelmaid." The door swung shut behind him, leaving Malcan and Malaya to glower at the heavy oak.

"I don't believe them!" Malaya fumed.

"I do." Malcan sat down on the steps, glaring at the stone. "They _always _do this. 'You are too young,' or 'you are the prince, we must protect you', or…" A snarl and he threw his sandle across the room. "I _hate _it!"

Malaya scuffed the floor with a footpaw. "No wonder ya ran off. Too young my tail!" She glanced back at the door with an angry and hurt shadow in her eyes. "I been through near as much as her, an' survived it too! I've got just as much right to be in there as Ria does!"

Malcan scowled. "Aye!" Then he deflated with a sigh. "Ah well… complaining will not do us any good…" He sprang to his footpaws. "Come on, Malaya; I shall give you a tour of the castle."

"Oh no you don't!"

Malcan sighed as he was again pulled up short by the tail. "Swiftrudd, we will not leave the castle. You may even follow us the entire time."

"Please?" Malaya turned her best pleading expression on the otter. "I just wants ta see th' castle…"

Swiftrudd rolled his eyes skyward, but relented. "All right… but wait for me!" he yelped as the two young squirrels took off down the hall, laughing all the while.

In the war room, a place of maps and records nearly filled by a huge round table, Riala and the others stared down at an outspread map of Southsward.

"Do you know where the horde is now, Pilaris?" the squirrelking asked.

The bird studied the map for a long moment, then bobbed his head and tapped a talon on the outskirts of the forest. "Hereish. Lotsa meanfurs."

Sandor slid a black stone on the spot. "How many?"

Pilar spread his wings. "Scores an' scores! Five groupses…"

"…and a score per group," Riala said. "So… fivescore."

A low whistle came from the squirrelqueen. "A full hundredbeasts…!"

Riala glanced sharp at Sandor. "How many otters do you have?"

Sandor's eyes rolled to the ceiling with thought. "Near on fifty… we're missing a couple, Hyacinth and Strongpaw. They went missing a few days ago… With them, we'd have a full two and a half score."

"Only half their numbers…" Riala's brow furrowed. "It's not enough. We'll be slaughtered."

"Not if we stayed in the castle," Sydelle said. "With Floret's defenses, and all the foodstores we have… we could easily outlast them."

Sandor clicked down four more black stones by the first, then placed two white ones and a small white pebble in the castle. "Maybe," he said slowly. "But if they used fires… and siege engines… catapults, ladders…" He shook his head. "They could overwhelm us with sheer numbers."

"I know how they attack," Riala said. "There's usually two different methods. The first is a sneak attack… they send in their assassins—the Nightblood, I think they're called—and kill off the sentries. Then kill as many as possible until they're discovered… The noise is the signal for the brute attack force, the Nightfangs. Not nearly as skilled as some of the others, but still ferocious fighters. That's always been enough to take out their target with very few losses…"

"And the other?" Audric asked.

A slow deep breath. "If there's no cover, or the target is too large or too alert… the score of archers and slingbeasts and the like, the Nightarms, strike first. It's a semi-circle of sorts—Nightfangs in the front, with Nightblood behind them, and Nightarms firing over them. The targets usually attack—you can't run from archers too easily. That's when the Nightfangs attack, with the Nightblood weaving in and out with poison and garrotes…"

Sandor's expression grew grim. "They sound like expert fighters…"

Riala nodded. "They are… None are feared more in the Northlands."

"Wait…" Sydelle frowned, looking at the array of black stones. "Fivescore… but you have mentioned only three groups. What of the other two?"

A nod. "The Nighteyes… the scouts and spies of the Nighthunt. They're the advance force every time, spying out the target and almost never being seen or caught." She stiffened, a sudden chill running up her spine. "Wait…"

The others leaned forward, tensing. "What is it?" Audric asked, low and intense.

Riala drew a deep breath. "I've seen some of the Nighteyes—and Nightblood—scale cliff walls like the ones you have here, as high and tough as your walls… I've seen them swim rivers wider than your moat…"

"…so you're saying they could scale our walls," Sandor said, flat and expressionless.

"…Aye."

The otter swore and made as if to stand. "I've got to tell the otterguard—"

"In a bit," Riala interrupted. "First… Is there any way you could get reinforcements?"

Audric nodded. "There's the Guosis, not far from here."

"And that hedgehog tribe," Sydelle added.

"And Amaranth's patrol," Sandor said. He glanced to Pilar. "Bird… would you be able to find a tribe of shrews, a group of hedgehogs, and eight hares?"

Pilar clacked his beak in scorn. "Can Pilar find? Pilar finds _anything _easy-like! Pilaris Arrowflight swiftest of birds, bestest, sharpest eyes of allbirds!"

"Aye, aye, but you can find them?"

The fieldfare nodded his head. "Tellame where-like, whatkind, whatsay."

Sandor glanced out the window at the moon. "For now… just tell them of the horde. Tell them to be wary. And tell them we may call for aid…"

Pilar's feathers fluffed upwards. "Can do suchstuffs!" A sudden yawn, not quite stifled by his wing. "But… notnightness. Nightfly bad, an' Pilarbird tiredlike…"

Riala didn't manage to hold back a yawn of her own. "Aye, we've been on the move since dawn. A bed would be… _very _welcome, for a change."

"Of course!" Sydelle exclaimed, eyes widening. "Oh, how could I have been so thoughtless? Of course you're exhausted! Come, come, I'll show you to the guest quarters…"

She hustled Riala and Pilar out of the room, fretting all the while, and down the hall to fluffed pillows, thick mattresses, and welcome sleep.

"Captain Kiern!"

A quiet voice from the shadows as Kiern neared his tent; only long training kept him from jumping.

"Who's there?"

Footpaws touched the earth, and in moments the vixen Bloodmoon ghosted into view. "Simply myself, captain…"

Kiern relaxed minutely and nodded. "Do you need something?"

"Nay… naught but to speak with you."

"Come in, then." The stoat ducked into his tent and the vixen followed. Kiern shuffled papers aside, motioned her to sit. She lowered herself to the edge of his cot and regarded him with those stormsky eyes that saw all too much.

"Well, what did you want to say?"

She remained silent for a long moment, gaze growing even more intense. "You walk two roads, Kiern," and somehow her use of his name without its title was entirely acceptable. Her voice grew hollow, seeming almost to echo in the confines of the tent. "A fine line between honor and duty… but the time fast approaches when you must choose a single path, for they shall diverge too much to leave a footpaw on each. When that time comes, you must choose quick and sure… for there can be no turning back."

She blinked, and the spell shattered. Kiern tore his eyes from her at last, shaking for no reason he could see. "What—what are you talking about?" he stammered, backing away a step.

Bloodmoon's dark paws pressed against her temples. "I said… what needed to be said. Think on it, captain." _At least her voice is normal again… _"I can never remember what I say, but… it has always come true… and it is well to heed the words I speak in these times."

"Wait… what _is _all this?!" Anger simmered within. "Choose honor or duty? And now you almost threaten me to listen to you? Why should I?"

Weariness etched tired lines in her face, slumped her shoulders and drooped her ears. "I know not… Stormsong did not heed my warning to flee, and—look what happened to him."

Shock widened Kiern's eyes. "You told him… to flee?"

"Aye," she said, staring blankly at her paws. "He said I foretold pain, and death of spirit, and death of body—that all were imminent if he did not flee the Nighthunt. But he… he did not listen…"

Kiern shook his head as if in a dream. "No… he listened…" Remembering the look of Dark Forest in the gentle bard's eyes, remembering the desperate embrace, the wistful kiss. "He did listen…"

The vixen glanced up. "He came to you."

Kiern winced. "…Aye."

"And told you of… his feelings."

His voice was almost a whisper, low and pained. "Aye…"

"Hellsteeth take him!" she burst out, sudden and grieving. "He could have fled! He could have _lived! _And instead he… he professes love for the one who could have saved him… but _would not…"_

A flinch, and then realization dawned and Kiern stared at Bloodmoon. "You… you cared for him!"

"Aye, and what of it?!" Whirling on him, and he was shocked to see the sheen of moisture in the pale blue gaze.

"Stormsong… had no attraction to—females, did he?"

Her jaw clenched. "Nay. But you cannot control whom you… whom you care for."

Kiern looked down and away. "…Nay… you cannot." _Skyfire… why couldn't you have stayed?_

"Because you could not choose."

Again that hollow voice, striking to his core, and he stared at the vixen. She gazed into nothing, or perhaps everything. "What… what do you mean?"

She didn't stir. "You could not choose between honor and duty. You could not choose between Skyfire and Nightdeath.

"She chose honor. You stood frozen at the crossroads. As you always have…

"When will you choose a path?"

Kiern could do nothing but stare, reeling. _She means to say… that my indecision… my loyalty to the Longclaws… is why Skyfire left? That it's _my fault?

Scorn touched the otherworldly voice. "Aye. It is, and you cannot argue this.

"You've repaid your debt to the wolverine threefold. Your debt is paid with interest. Why, then, do you follow one who has proven to be dishonorable?

"Are you afraid to choose?

"Are you afraid to see?"

The strange presence dissipated without warning, like smoke before a sudden gust of wind, and Bloodmoon crumpled with a sigh of breath. It shocked Kiern from his stupor; he darted forward, managed to catch the unconscious vixen.

"Bloodmoon?" he called, gently slapping her face. "Are you all right? Wake up!"

She groaned, eyes cracking open. "Oh, not again," she croaked, pulling herself up. One paw gripped tight to the tent pole as the other shook with exertion. "Seasons… too many visions… for one day…"

Frowning in mingled confusion and concern, Kiern helped the vixen to the doorflap. "Will you be all right?"

A nod, stiff and sore. "Aye. My bedroll is not far… and I've herbs there, for the headache."

She paused in the doorway, speaking hollow again, not turning. "Go see Astarte Darkmoon. She will be an important ally in the time to come. There is… much more to her than meets the eye…"

Kiern watched her go, consternation furrowing his brow, turning the cryptic words over in his mind. _What she says has the ring of truth… but…_

'You must choose at last between honor and duty.'

He shook his head as if to shoo a buzzing gnat. "I see what Swiftblade meant when he said she was not quite… _right. _She's closer to unnatural than anybeast I've ever met!"

_'Why do you follow one who has proven to be dishonorable? …Are you afraid to choose?'_

"Faugh!" He spat, kicking at the earth. "Seers! Nonsense and riddles…"

But her words danced about his head, unceasing. _Can't just stand here and do nothing… it'll drive me mad. _There _was _one thing she'd said, though, at the last… unsavory, but easier to think about than—the other things.

Kiern stepped into the fading sunlight and strode for Astarte's tent.

Eyes widened and shocked faces shifted to knowing leers, speculative whispers. Kiern grimaced beneath the oily touch of all those gazes, all the gossip. _So the "spat" I had with Astarte is all over the Nighthunt… wonderful._

The guard at Darkmoon's tent stared as Kiern approached, then scurried into the tent before ducking back out and saluting the guardcaptain.

"Captain Darkmoon welcomes you to her tent…"

Kiern paid the rat barely a glance, sweeping into the tent with a face as expressive as stone. Astarte smirked, lunged across the too-familiar bed of furs.

"I said ya'd be back, didn't I…"

His eyes narrowed, and leather creaked as his paw tightened automatically on his sword. "Aye, I'm back, but not for what _you _wish, Darkmoon."

She frowned a little. "What else would ya come back to my tent for?"

"To settle misconceptions."

A swift smooth movement and he sat cross-legged on the ground, unsmiling. "I was told it would be… wise… to speak with you. That there was more to you than—meets the eye."

The dubiousness he felt must have leaked out through his voice, for Astarte sat up to face him, seductive languor melting away. "What 'meets the eye'?" she asked, gaze darkening. "Just speaking straightforward and honest. That's what you want, right?"

"Straightforward… aye… Very well." A decisive nod. "I see you as a ruthless, power-grasping whore without scruples or honor."

One eyebrow arched. "Truly?"

"Truthfully."

"Then you know me not at all…" Her forehead crinkled. "Of course… ya've never been good at figuring beasts out. Ya never knew Skyfire loved you till the end, after all… or that Stormsong did… or that half your command pities you while respecting ya as a leader at the same time…"

A sharp glance. "What did you say?"

She laughed a little, but it sounded forced. "Ya see? You're oblivious."

"How would you know how any of the Nightclaws feel?!"

"I hear things, captain… and your command has urges too. After a night with me, well…" A sly smile crept across her face. "Most beasts don't watch their mouths too well after that, ya know?"

Kiern forced himself to remain seated, but rising fury darkened his glare and growled in his voice. "You've been subverting my command!"

"Not at all…!" She lifted her paws to ward off his fury. "Simply… asking questions. And giving them—payment."

"Darkmoon, you…!"

"Captain!" The rare steel in her tone startled him to stillness. "It's not wrong for them to sleep with me or any other fem. It's not wrong for me to talk with them. I _don't _undermine their loyalty to you or the Longclaws. I don't even _try. _So ya can stop glaring like I'm some sort of criminal and start _thinking _without your impossible scruples getting in the way!"

Kiern could only stare. _This is definitely new… _The righteous anger in her voice and burning gaze threw him off-kilter, chewed at the foundations of his beliefs about the Nightfangs captain. "…Maybe you're right," he said at last, a bit grudgingly.

A frown, then a sigh. "I suppose that's the best I'll get outta you… Thanks." Was that sarcasm or sincerity? Maybe a bit of both…

"Why do they pity me?"

Astarte blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt return to the earlier subject. Then a nod as she remembered. "Because… you're so divided, inside. Even _they _can see it."

"…divided?"

She sighed. "Between right and wrong. Conscience and duty, seeing the one who taught ya your code of honor violating it. Like with those woodlanders, the ones everybeast was raping. Most of us don't see anything wrong with it—they're just _woodlanders—_but ya told your command not to rape anybeast, even though the Longclaws said it was all right. So your honor wasn't his, then."

He shifted, looking away. That incident still haunted his dreams… "Go on."

"Well… there's also the slave issue…"

Shock stabbed icicles down his spine. "How did anybeast find _that _out?!"

"Oh, c'mon, Kiern—ya oughta know by _now _that there's no secrets for long in the horde." She smiled, a little sadly, at the consternation on his face. "And of course… the incident with Stormsong… and interrogating the otter pair…"

"_Enough!"_

Too many memories, too many doubts. Kiern's claws dug deep into his arms, paws clenching all too tight. The metallic scent of blood stung his nose, but he took little note. _I can't think about these things… _"What's your point, Darkmoon?"

She watched the fur darken around his paws, expressionless. "That your command pities you for having to compromise your honor. Sacrifice it to your loyalty to the Longclaws. And they respect ya for it at the same time. Sometimes… sometimes I think they're more loyal to _you _than the chief himself."

He stiffened; his claws dug long red furrows down his arms. "Then they should not be in the Nightclaws!"

"Don't worry…" Again that sad smile. "They'd follow your orders to the death. And ya order them to protect the Longclaws with their lives, as you do…" She regarded him for a long moment. "Ya command great respect from the Nightclaws, and even those outside it."

"…Why are you telling me this?"

Astarte looked up, at the shadows of the canvas. "Maybe because… you're the first to try to learn more about me than—" She swept her paws and gaze over her body with a crooked bitter smile. "Even if it was on another's suggestion… you're the first, after Loamstar."

Kiern frowned. "Loamstar… Isn't that—"

"—the vixen we 'recruited'?" A nod. "Aye. A bit more experience and she'll make subcaptain." Astarte smiled fondly, a far-off look clouding her gaze. "She's a bright one, she is…"

_Is that _affection _in her voice? _Kiern stared, marveling. _She actually has a relationship with somebeast that isn't centered on _using _them?_

"So you're saying that there _is _something to you beyond power hunger and whorish ways?"

The dark eyes flashed indignant. "Aye, there is!" she spat. "Just like there's more to _you _than honor and duty, and there was more to Stormsong than music and medicine! _Nobeast _is so one sided, _nobeast _is so easily categorized, and you're a fool to do so, _captain!"_

Again he was struck dumb by the vehemence in her voice. "I…"

"Ya _what?" _Astarte snapped, leaping to her footpaws. "Ya didn't think? Ya never thought 'Astarte the whore bitch' could have _feelings? _Ya never thought there might be more ta me than my bed?!" A snarl. "You're just like all the rest! I don't know why I ever thought different!"

He stared. "Astarte…"

She whirled away, shaking, and Kiern could do nothing but gape, stunned to silence by her outburst, her words, her—her _hurt? _Astarte's shook violently, and Kiern's sharp ears picked out strange sounds. Stifled whimpers, concealed snuffling—

_Is Astarte Darkmoon, wild captain of the Nightfangs, _crying

The second time in his life with the horde where somebeast wept before him, and like before, Kiern had no idea what to do. Leave her alone? Try to comfort? What was a stoat supposed to _do _in a situation like that?!

She still stood there, shaking and alone, shoulders hunched against the world. A deep uncertain breath and Kiern stood, reached a paw for her shoulder.

"_Don't touch me!"_

He flinched back, wide-eyed. "Are—are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" Sniffling, and she drew a paw across her face before turning his way, red-eyed and damp-faced. "Just a little sick. The sniffles." She ignored his skeptical glance and instead looked to his arms, bleeding from the long cuts carved by his claws. "Ya need to fix those up…"

Kiern didn't realize what she referred to at first, but he followed her gaze and blinked at the afterburn buzzing across his arms. "Oh… it's not deep…"

"Not deep?" One brow lifted and she ran a paw over his arm, lifted it sticky with blood. "Deep enough to bleed that much… and ya've cut _up _the arms… can open a vein that way. I don't think ya want to die just yet, so…" She reached for her haversack, pulled out gauze and an ointment. It stung as she spread it over the cuts, wrapped them up. "Better?"

Kiern stared down at the paws expertly winding the gauze. "Where'd you learn that?"

A shrug. "I was learning to be a healer before—things—happened, and the Longclaws picked me up."

"A healer!" Another wave of shock swept over him. "But—why weren't you put in the Nighteyes, then? Or the Nightblood?"

She turned away. "Like I said… things happened."

Kiern opened his mouth to inquire further, but the stiffness of her shoulders and the twitching of her tail warned that she didn't want to talk about it. He closed his mouth and nodded slowly. "I'll leave you to your sleep," he said at last, as the silenced stretched on. He turned to leave.

"Kiern, wait…!"

He stopped, one paw on the tent flap, glanced back at the stoat fem. "What?"

"I…" She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath. "I'm—sorry. About Skyfire. And—and what I said, before."

Kiern regarded her for a long moment. At last he bowed his head in acknowledgment—in acceptance?—and touched his saber's pommel in a silent salute. A few short steps, canvas rustling over his back, and the cool night air embraced his brooding thoughts.

The captains met in the Longclaws' tent the next day for a council of war and battle plans. There was the usual laying out of statistics, information—a tally of morale and numbers, supplies and discontents—and finally the Longclaws called on Sharshek to review his scouts' findings in Castle Floret.

The rat laid out a crude floorplan next to an outspread map of the Southsward area. "Here's wot we can tell of th' castle," he drawled. "Th' moat's pretty wide an' deep—I'd say thirty lengths wide, twenty lengths deep, give or take a few paw-heights… Goes all the way 'round th' castle except for where there's cliffs. An' th' drawbridge is up—guess they got wind of us."

"But your spies were able to get inside," the Longclaws said. Not a question, more of a statement with a veiled threat beneath if it wasn't true.

"Oh, of course," Sharshek said, almost off hand. "See, here's th' entrance… an' th' throneroom… with lotsa rooms goin' off it. Downstairs there's a dungeon—empty, not been used in seasons by th' looks of it. A few towers…"

"Aye, we see all that," Astarte said, impatient. "The map's there, we can all read it… do ya have anything _else _of import?"

Sharshek shot her an indignant glare. "…Aye. There's mebbe threescore otter fighters, led by a big bloke, a Captain Sandor. Then there's th' king, a squirrel, Audric something, an' th' queen, Sydelle. They've got a son, spoiled little brat, thinks he's a warrior an' such—Malcan. Oh… and two visitors…" A sly side glance to Nightdeath's dark form. "A squirrelbrat called Malaya… an' a warrior squirrel. They call 'er… Riala Goldentail."

The wolverine's ebon eyes narrowed. "Battlecry's whelp… still alive, hm? I thought the nuisance had died seasons ago when she stopped picking off stragglers from the trees…" A shrug of broad black shoulders. "It matters not—she's simply an annoyance. We'll kill her with the rest… Is that all?"

Sharshek looked disappointed at the lack of reaction, but shook his head. "Nothin' more."

"Sir…"

The Longclaws glanced at Kiern. "What is it?"

Kiern's brow furrowed. "The goldentailed squirrel… she hunts you out of hatred. She's vengeance-driven… it makes her dangerous. She doesn't have the honor of most woodlanders. Shouldn't something be done about her?"

Fangs gleamed in the slightest of snarls. "You're saying that I should fear a _squirrelmaid?"_

"No sir, but—"

The Longclaws laughed. "You're overzealous in your duty, guardcaptain… I killed her father. She should be no different. Let her come… Maybe I'll even play at dueling with the treejumper."

Kiern nodded acquiescence, stepping back to his prior spot by the entrance, but his brow remained furrowed in concerned thought. _Aye, you killed her father—but I heard that he nearly bested you in single combat, and you had to call archers to slay him… _A slow breath. _That tribe… they are vicious fighters. I'll have to put double guard on the chief if Goldentail is about._

"Deathcry, Sharshek," Nightdeath said, "how are the siege engines coming?"

Deathcry's fangs gleamed in a vicious smile. "Going well, sssir… the catapultsss are nearly done."

"Good…" He turned to Veneno, standing in the shadows of the tent's corner, sharpening his scythe. "Veneno—I want you to dispatch assassins. Go for their king and queen, and the otter captain too. They think they're safe in their castle… we'll put fear and uncertainty into their hearts."

The rasping of the whetstone silenced, and the flat amber eyes glimmered in the dark. "Do you wish Death to visit the foodstores, the water…?"

"…No, not yet," the wolverine replied after a moment's thought. "Not yet…"

He turned to Astarte. "Have your troops start training at climbing and using the siege ladders. When they're not training, they should be helping build siege engines."

She saluted. "Aye, sir."

"Kiern…"

The stoat straightened. "Sir?"

"You know best what to do."

A nod. "Aye, sir." _Drilling, double guard, help with siege engines…_

Nightdeath nodded to each captain. "That's all, then… Unless something unexpected happens, we will meet again this time tomorrow." An exchange of salutes, and he swept out of the tent. The captains of the Nighthunt followed, scattering to their assigned tasks with a will.

Sunset of the next day found Riala pacing the halls of Castle Floret. She'd been around the entire place twice now—up every one of its myriad towers, through every room and closet. She'd even explored the dungeon. Twice.

Not enough for her impatient vengeance-lust. _He's so close… so _close… _I can almost smell that rank stench… see those hated eyes.. feel my dagger slide into his black heart! _Riala's paw clenched on the hilt of her blade. _And I am stuck here! Doing _nothing!

She stopped, tufted ears twitching. _There! _A scuffling, muffled shouts, the clang of steel on steel. Riala broke into a run, racing for the sounds, bounding off the walls in hasty turns.

The noise of combat grew louder, nearer, and then—ceased. Riala's roce sprang into her paw; she crouched low, pushed gentle and slow on the heavy wood door—

—and swiped the club to parry the longsword pointed at her skull.

"Who…!" The otter at the other end of the blade stopped, stared down at the squirrel. "Oh… Goldentail." A nod; he moved his sword aside. "Find Sandor, will you? I've caught an intruder…"

The hackles on Riala's neck stood on end. "An intruder—one of the Longclaws'?!

He nodded, massaging a bleeding shoulder. "Go quick! I've got to guard the vermin."

"I'll guard it," she snarled, shoving past him. There, in the corner of the room, past upturned tables and sputtering torches, lay a bound and beaten weasel garbed all in black. And on his chest… A growl rumbled from Riala's throat at the sight of the white claw insignia.

A heavy paw touched her shoulder; she whirled. "What?!"

The otter stared at the pinned-back ears, the bared fangs, the lashing tailbrush. "You're a visitor here… _I'll _guard the prisoner."

"Nay, otter," she hissed. "I be the visitor here, an' so I ken little o' this place. Ye ken best how tae find your captain. Ye'd best be findin' him!" The otter hesitated; Riala forced her ears up, her tail to stillness. "I will nae be killin' th' scum; ye'll have enough left tae question, worry not."

He sighed and nodded. "I suppose I've no real choice…" The otter stumbled out the door, calling for his captain.

Riala watched him go with narrowed gaze, then whirled on the unconscious weasel. She stared down at him, lip curling, hate fogging her mind. "Wake ye up, scum," she snarled, kicking him in the side. The weasel groaned and she kicked him again. "_Wake ye!"_

His eyes cracked open, then widened as he took in the situation. "What—"

In an instant her dagger's cold steel tickled his throat. "Answer swift an' true, weasel," Riala growled. "How did ye get in here?"

A grunt, instinctively tightening his throat to draw it away from the threatening blade. "Like anybeast else," he said, gaze sparking defiance. "Through the door."

Blood welled as the dagger pricked through skin. "I be not in th' mood for humor! _Answer me!"_

"Or what?" A sneer. "You'll kill me? I'll get far worse if the Longclaws finds I've talked."

"Far worse than from _me, _ye think?" She laughed, harsh and mirthless. "Nay, weasel…" Her tail lashed into view. "I be not like most woodlanders. I'll do whate'er needed tae find an' kill th' wolverine!"

He stared at her tail. "Golden…tail…"

"Aye, that I am," Riala said with a deadbeast's smile. "Now—ye'll be talk, or I'll be havin' tae bleed it out o' ye!"

The weasel's eyes darted side to side, and then he drew a long breath. "Nay."

His defiance melted away to a scream as Riala's dagger plunged into his paw. "Ye'll talk, scum!" She twisted the blade, and he writhed in agony. Riala's face remained an expressionless mask. "How did ye get in here? Be there more o' ye? What plans th' wolverine? _Tell me!"_

"Goldentail…!"

Another gasping scream as the squirrel wrenched her dagger from the weasel's paw, whirled away to see Captain Sandor standing in the doorway. Behind him peered the shocked faces of Malaya and Malcan.

Riala crouched, bloody dagger weaving, rust-gold brush lashing back and forth. "Ye'll have him when I'm done," she growled. "He'll still be able tae talk. An' likely more willing."

Sandor's expression set to stone. "It is not our way."

"Not _your _way," she said with a feral grin. "But I'll be doin' whate'er it takes tae kill th' Longclaws…"

Sandor stepped forward; Riala snarled, and he stopped. "You can't torture him… that's what _his _kind do. You can't lower yourself to their level."

"Can't I?" Her ears pinned back flat against her skull. "They'd do the same an' worse yet tae _ye _if they e'er caught ye! If ye want tae win against honorless scum like th' Longclaws, ye'll be needin' tae fight dirty as they."

He frowned. "There's been many victories over vermin without resorting to cruelties!"

Riala spat on the ground. "Aye, an' many deaths, an' many losses! My own father—he fought th' wolverine with honor, in a duel, an' what did th' black-hearted blaggard do? Shot him full o' arrows th' moment th' Longclaws lost th' upper paw!" Her lips drew back in an enraged snarl. "No use usin' honor with those who haven one. Ye'll be dyin' that way!"

"But dying with a clear conscience," the otter captain said, circling around.

Riala watched him warily, dagger at the ready. "Dead is dead. It matters not how ye die."

"Doesn't it?" Sandor's gaze pierced hers. "Can you say you're proud of your actions, Goldentail? That you're at piece with yourself? That you could die tomorrow with no regrets?"

She snarled. "My only regret would be nae killin' th' Longclaws!"

_Phht—_

A puff of air; Riala whirled, cursing, but not in time. A feathered dart pricked her shoulder. She howled fury, glaring up at the ottermaid in the doorway with the blowgun. "Ye fools…!" She wrenched out the dart, hurled it back at the otter, sprang for Sandor. "Th' weasel's _mine…!"_

The sleeping poison spreading through her body must have stiffened her limbs and slowed her reactions, for Sandor seemed to move in an impossible blur, pity on his sable face. "I'm sorry, Goldentail, but I must…"

The hilt of his sword crashed down as she fought to move limbs filled with lead. Stars burst in her sight, in her skull, in her mind—and all fell to black oblivion.

Malaya bit back a cry as Riala crumpled to the ground. "Ria…!"

She bent to race forward, but a paw clamped down on her shoulder. "Malaya, do not—she will be all right."

The squirrelmaid whirled on Malcan, anger flaring in the nightoak gaze. "He hit her! He _hurt _her!"

"Nay, she's not hurt," Sandor said, quiet and even. He bent over and scooped the warrior squirrel up from the ground. "She'll have a headache when she wakes, but she'll be fine."

Malaya followed, worry lashing her tail. "You're not gonna lock her up, are ya?"

Sandor walked on in silence. "We may have to."

"No!" The squirrelmaid broke into a trot to keep up with him. "She'll go crazy! Ya _can't _lock her up!"

"You saw what she did to that weasel," the otter said, grim and cold. "She was planning on torturing him. She's as bad as any vermin!"

That stopped Malaya in her tracks. She stared in disbelief. "She is _not!" _She caught up to him again, brow furrowing. "Yah, she's ruthless, an' not real honorable all th' time, but she told ya why. An' it's only ta _vermin _she's like that! She's _good! _She'd never hurt a goodbeast!"

"No?" Sandor stopped, turned to give her a piercing look. "She certainly seemed ready to attack me back there."

Malaya winced. "Well… only when somebeast gets in th' way of her revenge… an' even then, she's only ever _threatened. _Never actually _hurt _anybeast." Her voice grew quiet, saddened. "Revenge on th' Longclaws… she don't live for much other'n that, now."

A long silence from the otter. Then, "I don't know if she can be trusted." He resumed his quick stride.

"She _can!" _Malaya cried. "Just lock th' weasel in your dungeon where she can't get at 'im without a key or somethin', and it'll be fine!"

"Captain Sandor…"

The otter glanced back at the squirrelprince. "Aye?"

He shifted uncertainly. "Malaya knows Riala Goldentail better than we… and I know Malaya to be an honest beast."

Sandor paused in front of a solid oaken door, pushed it open with a footpaw. He laid Riala out on the bed. "So you think she can be trusted to go free."

"Aye!" A deep breath. "An'… an' if she does wrong… ya can lock _me _up too." A shudder rippled across her body and she swallowed hard, but kept her chin lifted high in defiant certainty.

Sandor turned to regard her for a tense endless moment. At last his head dipped in acquiescence. "That won't be necessary," he said, and air whooshed from Malaya's lungs with relief, "but… I'll have to take her weapons."

"All right," she said. _Ria won't be happy…! _"Just don't lock her up."

A nod, and Sandor pulled Riala's roce and dagger from her belt. "I've got to go question that weasel," he said by way of farewell, and stepped out of the room.

Malaya sat down hard on the floor, ears and tailbrush drooping. Pawsteps sounded in the doorway, and a slight cough. Malaya glanced up at Malcan. "Whatcha want?" she said, somewhat morose in tone and manner.

"Uhm…" He took a step towards her. "Are you well…?"

"…Aye, well enough…" She sighed. "C'mon, let's get outta here."

They walked in silence, footpaws echoing on stone walls. "You seemed almost—frightened, offering to be locked up."

Malaya flinched, then nodded. "Aye…" A sigh. "My name—it means 'freedom'. Chose it myself."

"What was your name before?"

She looked down at her paws, at the shackle-scars encircling her wrists. "Onliest name I remember is 'Scumbrush'—it's what th' slavers called me…" She drew in a long breath as Malcan stared, aghast. "But… it's why I can't—why I'm scared ta be locked up. I'd rather _die _than not be free."

"Malaya…"

She didn't look up at his shocked whisper. "So ya see… I'm pretty confident in Ria…"

More silence. "…How could she do something—like she did?"

"Torture somebeast?" Malaya's gaze darkened. "Outta hate. It's… powerful. If she an' Shadow hadn't killed th' slavers… I might've done th' same. After—after what they did…" A shudder. "I… I hated them. I wanted 'em ta feel every bit of my pain. Wanted ta pay 'em back for everything they did…"

"…but you did not."

"They died afore I could." She breathed in deep, let it out in a slow sigh. "But… I'm over it now. I let it go—th' hate. So now… I'll kill any slaver I find, but it's just so's they won't slave anybeast else. I won't torture 'em or nothin'…"

Malcan reached out a paw, placed it gentle on her shoulder. "What… what did they do to you…?"

Silence, stiffening with dark memories that haunted her nights and that she pushed away at day. "…lots…" Flinching, walking faster as if to escape. "I wasn't very strong-like, so I wasn't much good workin' like th' otherbeasts. They made me work anyhow, but… I couldn't do much. Not much profit for 'em. So… they had me do—other stuff."

Malcan stared, uncomprehending in his naïveté. "Other stuff? Like what…?"

A slow breath. "Like… well, they learned me ta sing, an' dance. Dance… strange dances. They'd clean me an' a coupla other fems up when we got ta vermin camps'r castles'r whatnot. Dress us in gauzy clothin', lotsa layers that come off easy an' never cover much…"

She'd stopped walking, gaze growing distant, trembling with remembering. "An' we'd—dance, an' sing sometimes, but mostly dance. An' th' vermin'd watch an' laugh an' have us dance more. An' sometimes watchin' weren't enough, an' they'd… they'd _touch…_" The trembling grew to shuddering, and she leaned back against the wall. "Th' slavers'd make 'em pay more ta do that, but after th' dancing, they'd pay it without even complainin'. An' some—some'd pay lots… ta do more'n just… touch…"

She slid down the wall, huddled on the floor, hugged her legs to her chest as shaking overwhelmed her thin frame. Malcan stared, aghast and shocked, unable to move, not knowing what to say—what _could _be said… and finally he just sat next to her, reached out an arm, uncertain and hesitant. When she didn't flinch at his touch, he hugged her to him.

"Shh…" He rocked her back and forth as the dam of tears held in for far too long finally broke, let her sob out her pain into his shoulder. "It is over now… Malaya… shh…"


	18. War and Vengeance

**Vengeance Quest**

**Chapter 18:**** War and Vengeance**

Riala woke to darkness and clamor and a headache like a thousand moles digging away at her brain. "Unnh…"

And then the reason for the headache flooded back into memory, and Riala collapsed on the bed. "Hellsteeth… that blasted otter… that bloody _weasel…_" Anger flared, but so did the starburst of headache, and she groaned. "Wonderful…"

Yelling outside, and steel clanging, and screams—for a moment all Riala could do was press her paws to her pounding skull. "What's going on…?"

She forced herself upright, felt about for her roce and dagger. _Blast it all… they took my weapons… _A curse, and she stumbled to the door, pushed at it. It opened easily. _At least they didn't lock me in…_

The clamor sounded from across the throne room. Riala staggered across it as otters streamed out of their rooms, all heading for the king and queen's chambers.

The two otterguards at the door lay dead at their posts, blood streaming from impossibly thin slices across their necks. Riala's scarred visage grew grim. She stepped over the bodies and into the royal chambers.

Audric the squirrelking stood panting over the body of a black-garbed ferret, a bloody rapier dangling from his paw. An otterguard knelt opposite, saber gleaming red, examining the body.

"Sydelle…!" Audric exclaimed suddenly, and raced to the bed. The squirrelqueen sat leaning against the headboard, breath coming in irregular gasps, clutching her shoulder.

"Sydelle—love—are you well?" the king fretted. He pulled her paw away, hissed at the sight of blood. "Somebeast get the healer!" he shouted. When nobeast moved, he turned to glare at the otters in the doorway. _"Now!" _Almost a scream, verging on panic. "That's an _order!"_

The otters scattered. Riala shoved through them to the body of the ferret, knelt next to the otter examining it.

Yes, the ferret wore black. But there was no white insignia on her tunic. A black mask covered her face; she wore supple black gloves and no shoes whatsoever.

"Nightblood," Riala said at last, grim and hateful.

The otter glanced up. "What?"

Riala rolled the dead ferret over, paws running through pockets and over the belt. "The Longclaws' assassins," she said, pulling out a garroting wire and a pouch containing a clear gel. Riala sniffed it and grimaced. "Poison." She pried the stiletto from the ferret's frozen paws, ran a paw across the flat of the blade. It came away wet with some transparent substance. "On the blade, too…"

"What—what is wrong with her?!"

Audric's frightened cry, and Riala rose with deadly knowing resting heavy and cold in her heart. Sydelle had collapsed into violent shivering, strangled whimpers wrenching from her tightening throat. Riala watched, impassive.

"She's been poisoned…"

The blood drained from Audric's face. "_No…" _He gripped Sydelle in a tight embrace, as if will alone could stop her shaking. "_No! _She will survive. She _will _survive! It was but a tiny prick of the dagger…!"

Riala's voice slid toneless, emotionless, on the still air. "If your healer knows the antidote. If he can administer it in time. If it's not already too late."

_"No!" _The squirrelking gripped his wife tighter. "_She… will… live!"_

"Healer comin' through!" a wizened old otter rasped, shoving past Riala. "Move it!"

Riala watched in silence as the old healer went to work with herbs and knife, trying to work through Sydelle's uncontrollable shaking. After several long minutes, the golden-tailed squirrel bowed her head and turned away, pushing through the gathered staring otterguards to escape the room.

"My… my mother…"

Malaya placed a gentle paw on the squirrelprince's shaking shoulder. "She'll be fine, Malc…"

He slid down the wall outside his parents' bedchamber, staring into nothing. "Will she…? It has been hours—and—and the healer has said nothing. She looks even worse than before…"

"But she's stopped shakin', right?" Malaya squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "So that's gotta be good!"

"Maybe…" He dropped his face into his paws. "Oh, Malaya—what if she _dies?"_

"She won't!"

He didn't seem to hear her. "I… I have been naught but a trial to her… Worrying her by running away… Breaking her vases… Painting on her throne…"

Malaya blinked. "You painted on her _throne?"_

"I have not even said I am sorry! I have not—I have not said I love her!"

"Malcan…" Malaya stood, pulled the prince to his footpaws. "If it means so much to ya… go tell her now!"

"But—"

She grabbed his wrist, dragged him into the royal chambers. "Go."

Malcan looked at his mother for a long moment, still and limp as a dead thing, a compress on her forehead. The healer, Reed, hunched over Sydelle, peeling a bloated leech off her shoulder wound.

"Mother…?"

Her eyes cracked open the slightest bit. "Malcan… my son…"

Malcan ran to her side. He buried his face in the sheets, gripped her paws in his. She sounded so weak… speaking in the barest of whispers… and her grasp of his paw—so feeble…

"Mother, I am so sorry!"

"For… for what…?"

The sheets muffled his words. "For… for being such a difficult son… worrying you so…"

She smiled a little. "Oh, Malc… you _are _a son, remember… Sons are… oft troublesome…" She squeezed his paw. "But… I would not have… any other… I forgive you…"

The air whooshed from his small frame. He kissed her paw. "I love you, Mother…"

Silence. The breath caught in Malcan's throat and he looked up at his mother's face. "M—mother?"

"Sleepin'," the healer rasped. "Tired out, she is. Surprised she woke for _that _long. Now get outta here—check on your father. Sent him te get some sleep and grub… he'll be wantin' te come back now."

Malcan nodded, a lump forming in his throat. "Yessir…" And he scurried out, glancing back for a long look at his mother.

"She all right?"

He jumped before spotting Malaya. "Oh. Aye."

She glanced sidelong at him. "_You _all right?"

That took a moment's thought. "…Aye."

"Good." Malaya pushed herself off the wall. "Let's go find your da."

The old healer met them when they returned with Audric. Each face paled, and there was no need to ask after Sydelle's health. Reed's tired empty gaze said it all.

"I tried all I could, m'lord… tried everythin' I could think of…"

A strangled cry burst from Audric's throat. He shoved past the healer, into the chambers. Malcan and Malaya stared blank with shock and disbelief. And then a sobbing scream wailed from within the room.

_"SYDELLE…!!"_

Malcan stood motionless. Utterly unmoving. Utterly stunned. "She… _she is dead…"_

Evening. The entirety of the castle's inhabitants moved as if in a daze. Some faces held tear-streaked grief. Others were twisted and anger. And some—some searched every shadow in wide-eyed fear…

For the unthinkable had happened. Two vermin—_two! _And maybe more!—had entered the locked-down, siege-ready castle. Had slain the queen with poison. Even killed two of the skilled otterguard…!

_Poison! _Whispers echoed through the halls as if to speak fears loudly would make them all too true. What if the vermin poisoned the water? The food stores? If they could kill the queen, they could do _that _with ease! What if a spy slipped in and lowered the drawbridge? Or set a fire? Or—

Sandor sought out Riala, his expression grim. "We're having a council of war."

A nod, trying not to betray her anticipation. _They can't wait out a siege now… they _have _to act! _"You wish a weaponless torturer to join you?" she said, even and emotionless. Malaya had murmured the captain's words in her ear hours before.

"…aye. I like it not, but that doesn't matter." His gaze narrowed. "You know more about the wolverine than even the bird. So we need your knowledge."

"And my roce," she said. At his sharp questioning glance, she clarified. "Unless you've studied the wolverine's fighting. Even a badger nearly died in battle with a wolverine. I might be able to defeat the Longclaws, though… for I've watched him fight many a time."

Sandor's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Very well," he grated. "I'll return your weapons. Come."

Audric and Pilar were waiting for them in the map-strewn war room. Grief had melded with vengeful fury in the squirrelking's heart, a poisoned arrow set to a tight-strung bow. It showed in his face, impassive and cold, with eyes reddened from weeping.

"We must strike soon. On the morrow."

Sandor nodded. "Aye, else we all be too panicked to touch even a drop of water… And the assassins can apparently enter without much trouble."

"What did you learn from the captive?" Riala asked.

The otter's jaw twitched. "He's dead. A vial of poison we missed, apparently."

"Or that the assassin gave him afterwards."

Audric shook his head. "At any rate… we must plan. Strike while we have the advantage of surprise."

"Not at night."

The others looked at Riala in surprise, but Pilar nodded. "Yesyes… Pilarbird can't flydark, seedark. Notta owlbird."

"Ah… and the bird will be a useful asset in the battle, carrying messages and seeing the layout of battle," Audric mused. "Well, Pilar—did you find the warriors I told you of?"

"Yesyes, how could Pilar not?" His feathers fluffed with pride. "Prickletings here," and he tapped a claw on the map. "Longears here." Tap, tap. "An' angry shrewthings _here."_

Sandor placed white stones in each of the indicated spots. "They've near surrounded the horde."

"Yesyes! Pilar suggested," the bird crowed. "Directed furbeasts. Allgood!" He tapped at a black stone. "Hordething still notmove. Make big woodthings. Stoneslingers, ladderclimbs."

"Catapults!" Riala's brow furrowed. "And siege ladders… Not good."

Audric nodded. "We _must _attack before they finish. Sandor—have you a plan?"

He nodded. "Try to break them apart—we can't fight en masse. The river runs just past them—we otters could strike from there and escape. The hares could lead some out to the plains… and the hedgehogs lead some into the forests."

"Take out the archers first," Riala said. "They'll be in one area… each group is in a different encampment. A few fire arrows in the tents…"

"We don't use fire!" Sandor protested.

Anger flared. "Do you want to have any survivors among your forces?" she growled. "Then you'll use fire! The Nighthunt are skilled fighters—you won't find better among vermin. I _suggest_ you use all the tools you have!"

"Listen to the squirrel."

Sandor whirled on his king. "You can't be serious!"

Audric stood, paws slamming on the table. "I am!" he said, almost a shout. "They took Sydelle with poison. They have already violated the rules of honorable warfare. Thus we must treat them the same!"

"But sir…!"

"That is an _order, _captain!"

Shock ripped across the otter's face, and he sat as if slapped. One paw came up in a slow salute. "As you command… my liege…"

The squirrelking glanced to Riala. "Have you any more suggestions?"

She shook her head. "Nay. But I will be following the Longclaws and his guard. The wolverine is _mine."_

"If Sandor or I do not get him first," Audric said grimly.

The otter captain sprang up at that. "Sir—no! You can't go into battle!"

"I can and I will! They _killed _my Sydelle!"

Anger flared. "Sir, think of your people! We have lost our queen. We cannot lose our king as well! You would leave us with a half-trained princeling?" Sandor's voice grew soft, almost pleading. "You would leave your son an orphan?"

The rage whooshed from Audric in a long sigh and he sank into his seat. "You are correct, as oft… I apologize, captain."

Sandor bowed his head. "Thank you, sir."

"Well…" Audric drew himself together with a deep breath. "I suppose I ought to tell the troops…

"We march… at dawn."

"Sir."

Bloodmoon's voice, out of the red shadows of evening. Kiern flinched. _Not again… _"Yes, Bloodmoon?"

She stepped into view, eerie blue gaze fixed on his bandaged arms. "Too many doubts, captain?"

"What of it?" he growled.

A sad slight smile. "The time of choosing approaches… Before the next setting of the sun, you must make your decision."

Kiern's brow furrowed. "Enough of riddles, seer! Speak plainly!"

"I cannot."

"Why _not?!"_

She sighed. "All I see—the visions—they are in images. Voices, songs—nothing simple, nothing plain. And everything keeps _changing… _With every decision made, the possible futures narrow and split yet again. Thus the time of your choosing has shortened."

"Choosing _what, _though?" Exasperation hissed in his voice. "Honor or duty? Myself or my chief? _What?"_

Bloodmoon bowed her head. "You've answered your own question, Captain Kiern… no need for me to tell you what you already know."

A growl. "Then tell me _something!"_

"…Very well…" Her voice echoed hollow and otherworldly. "Go to Astarte. Lie with her. And heed what she has to say."

"What…" He stared. "What sort of speaking is _that?!"_

The vixen's gaze cleared. She saluted. "I shall see you on the morrow, with dawn and flame."

Kiern watched her go, a vague confusion on his face, and at last he simply shook his head. "Strangebeast…"

Well, her words had all proven sound before. A deep breath, readjusting his saber, and Kiern strode once more for Astarte's tent.

"Come in, Kiern…"

He brushed past the guard at Astarte's welcome. She met him with a salute, standing fully clothed and fully armed for once. "How are your arms?"

A shrug. "Well enough."

"Let me see." She took his wrist gently in her paw, unwound the stiff stained dressing. "Hm." The stoat fem rummaged in her trunk, withdrew a waterskin and a clean cloth. She poured the water on his arms; it stung on the healing cuts, dripped pink from his fur. The cloth rubbed over his forearms came away stained pale red.

Kiern watched in silent wondering. _I never knew she could be so—gentle. What happened to change her from a healer into the warrior she is now?_

"We'll be going into battle any day now."

He nodded. "Aye."

"The goldentailed squirrel will surely challenge the Longclaws to a duel."

A sharp glance. _What is she getting at? _"Likely."

"…what if he loses?"

Kiern snorted, but his arms tensed beneath Astarte's touch. "He wouldn't lose to a treejumper."

"No?" She turned back to her trunk for an ointment. "What of her father?"

"…he survived, didn't he?"

"By dishonor."

Kiern's jaw clenched. Astarte spread the ointment on his arms and waited for an answer. Finally, "Mayhap."

The ointment was cold on his skin, strange with the warmth of Astarte's paws overtop. "He signaled to his guardcaptain to command the archers to slay Rilar Battlecry," she said softly. One paw reached up, touched the bone whistle about his neck. "What will you do if he signals?"

Kiern grew very, very still. His eyes closed tight. "I… I must do my duty…"

"Kiern…" Her paw smoothed the lines of his brow. "Your duty… to the one who taught you your code of honor… yet follows it not…?"

"I—I must—"

"Your debt to him has been repaid many times over. All that binds you to him now is your misplaced loyalty. He is not worthy of it…"

_"Stop it!" _He whirled away, shaking violently. "I—I have to remain loyal. I _have _to obey him. Without the Longclaws… Before him, I was a slave. Before the slavers, I was little more than a cub. I—The Longclaws, the horde, it… it's all I've ever known! He's… he's my leader. My liege. He's all I have…!"

"Oh, Kiern…" Astarte's voice was a pained and pitying whisper. "Kiern… you have the Nightclaws… You have—" She swallowed. "You have me…"

Kiern stilled. _What…? _He turned, slow and disbelieving, to stare at the stoat fem whose gaze held fear. Fear of—of what? Of scorn? Of—

_Of rejection?_

_ She—she _cares _for me?! Astarte the cold heartless whore—_cares?

But she was not cold, not heartless. He knew that, had known it for a while. It was just easier not to admit it… not to dwell on it.

Kiern bowed his head. "Darkmoon… I cannot think on these things… not now."

"But you will! Soon! –Won't you?" Almost pleading. _Strange…_

A soft sigh. "…Aye. I shall."

It was Darkmoon's turn to bow her head. "Thank you…"

Kiern reached her in two slow steps, placed a paw on her shoulder. "Astarte."

She looked up, eyes brimming with tears. "Aye?"

_Lie with her, Kiern! Heed what she says!_

_ You make your choice tomorrow._

_ Before the next setting of the sun._

"We may fight tomorrow…" he said, haltingly. "It is uncertain—what will happen. Who will survive…" A deep breath. "Will you—lie with me this night, Astarte? I ask you not—not as a captain. Not out of—obligation." His paw squeezed gentle on her shoulder. "But as onebeast to another…"

A crystal tear slipped down her cheek. "Th-thank you, Kiern… I will… and gladly…"

They awoke to the light of dawn, the crackle of flames, and screams of "attack!" Kiern bolted upright, wide-eyed and disbelieving. "The woodlanders are attacking?! _Here?"_

Astarte sprang up, wiping sleep from her eyes in a rush, grabbing for her breeches. "Hellsteeth!" She grabbed her sword, racing out of the tent while still buckling it on, with Kiern close behind.

The Nightarms encampment was burning. Kiern swore and broke into a run, blasting on the bone whistle. "_Nightclaws! To me! Guard the Longclaws!"_

Astarte's shouts sounded loud behind him. "Nightfaaaangs! To arms!"

He found the Longclaws with scimitar in paw, standing at the treeline. "Sir!"

The wolverine didn't stir. "Unexpected… We should have planned for it."

"Sir, what would you have me do?!"

The Longclaws turned to regard him. "Gather the Nightclaws, of course. The Nightblood and Nighteyes are hunting down the fools who did this." Amusement sparked in the ebon gaze. "They must be very angry, to have used fire…"

A fireball charged toward them, flames in the shape of a ferret. "Longclawsssssss!" it hissed, and Kiern recognized Deathcry's voice. "They comesss!" And she collapsed with a dying shriek of spine-chilling laughter.

"Well," the wolverine mused. "That solves _that _particular problem…"

Sharshek moved through the trees like a living shadow, eyes gleaming. _Foolbeasts… they're gonna die easy! No idea what they's dealin' with!_

_ Ahh… _A silent chuckle as he saw the sinuous form of an otter just ahead. _Time to die, riverdog… _His dagger fell into his paw, glinting in a stray light of sun, and the otter fell with a rattling cry.

"_SKREEE! _Badbeast meanbeast! _Songslayer!"_

The rat's gaze jerked upward, just in time to receive sharp claws through his eyes. He screamed in agony as the claws raked him again and again, until at last a slingstone ended his torment with a blow to the skull.

"_Skreehee!" _Pilar shrieked. "Good stonethrow, otterdog! Songkiller _deadnow!"_

Riala had told Malaya to stay in the castle with Malcan. But when had _she _ever listened? "I'll be blasted if I miss _this," _she muttered beneath her breath, moving on silent footpaws through the trees.

It had been an unpleasant argument she'd had with the squirrelprince, though.

"I am coming too!" he'd said.

Malaya had shaken her head. "It's not your job."

"I am a warrior! I can fight!"

She'd gripped his shoulders in her paws. "Ya have a duty ta your people! You're th' only heir, an' your da can't make another now that your ma's dead!" He'd flinched at that. "I'm a Wanderer. It's my job, my sworn _duty, _ta protect others. Ta fight. So I _gots _ta go, Malcan!"

_There. _Three black-garbed vermin circling an ottermaid. Malaya let two arrows fly in quick succession; the otter's short sword swiped across the neck of the surprised thirdbeast. The otter lifted a paw in thanks. Malaya nodded and raced off to the next target.

A shout, a misstep, and she barely managed to land on her footpaws. A curving scythe lifted her chin. "Well, well, well… What has Death found this time, hmm?"

Riala hissed at the sight of the tall black form at the forest's edge. A red mist flickered over her sight, and she gripped her roce tighter. _Longclaws…!_

He was surrounded by his full guard, an entire score. A stoat walked beside him, eyes raking the shadows. _Must be that Kiern the stoat fem spoke of…_

They moved into the trees, circling the battlefield. _Hunting…? _No—they were moving towards the castle. _Hellsteeth! No… you… don't!_

"Nightdeath Longclaws!"

The wolverine stop, and in an instant his guard circled him, searching the trees. Riala grinned, feral and reckless, and dropped to the ground. Bowstrings creaked, daggers gleamed—and the Longclaws held up a fist to stop his guard from attacking.

"If it isn't Battlecry's whelp…" A dark laugh. "Come to die like your father?"

The golden tail lashed. "Ye'll be th' only one dyin' here, honorless scum!"

"Sir." The stoat guard's voice was tense and wary. "Should we capture her? Kill her?" But something in his stance said he already knew the answer.

Nightdeath waved him away. "Nay… she'll die in single combat. I should give her the same respect as her father, shouldn't I? After the nuisance she's been…" He stepped forward, scimitar sliding free of its sheath with a rasp like Death Forest's gates creaking open.

Riala's grin widened, a skull's death smirk. "At last," she breathed. "Been huntin' ye my entire life, wolverine… an' at last we'll see th' quest done!"

"Your entire life?" He shook his head in mock pity. "Too bad your life will end without your vengeance quest being fulfilled…"

A snarl. "Enough talk, Longclaws!" Her dagger sprang into her paw; her other paw gripped her roce. "Let us be endin' this!"

They clashed in a fury of fur and steel and wood as the Nightclaws looked on in slience.

The empty laughter of Astarte Darkmoon in the throes of battle melded in an eerie sort of bloody harmony with the screams of the dying and the yells of warcries. She was a whirlwind of death, dancing through the bodies, untouchable and horrifyingly beautiful. She slashed through a shrew as if he was little more than a grass blade. She spitted a hare almost without looking. And all the while her feral gaze fixed on a tall brawny otter on a hill. _That's the leader… that's their captain!_

"Hey, handsome beast," she purred as she reached him, blade weaving a shimmering tapestry.

He watched her, impassive and wordless. His longsword slid into his paws.

"Oh, the strong silent type, hmm?" A grin. "Just the sort I like best…"

Captain and captain clashed in a storm of steel, locked in a ferocious battle for life and for death.

Kiern watched the deadly duel with clenched jaw and impassive face. _She is good, _he thought, watching the squirrel dance in and out of the wolverine's reach. _Very good… and he is overconfident. And she knows it…_

The Longclaws looked almost bored as he warded off Riala's testing jabs and blows. She, on the other paw, seemed to almost be enjoying herself. The death-grin on her scarred visage was unnerving to behold.

_It's as if she knows his every move…! _Keirn realized with a shock. _"No…!"_

The squirrel darted past the wolverine's guard, stabbed with her dagger. He twisted enough that she missed his heart, but her blade sank deep into his arm, and he roared in surprise and pain and fury.

_Now _the Longclaws became serious with the fight. He pressed the squirrel hard, forcing her on the defensive, but her grin never faded.

_He… he might… _lose…

Veneno stood panting over the prone form of Malaya. A sneer lashed over his face. "You put up a good fight, little brushtail," he hissed, "but none can defeat Death!" His scythe swung back. "Come to my domain, pretty one—_kggth!"_

He arched back in agony, and a sword tip pierced through his front. A jerk, a twist, and amber eyes widened in shock and disbelief. "This… cannot… be… Death cannot… be defeated…!"

"To hellgates with you, fox!" a voice snarled, and the sword yanked from his body.

Veneno fell in a rustle of black cloth, his scythe plummeting with him, catching in his hood—and he lay still, never to stir again.

Malcan plunged his sword into the earth, forcing himself not to look at the black fox. He looked instead to Malaya's silent bloody form.

"Aya… _no…"_

He dropped to his knees at her side, lifted her onto his lap. "You cannot die… please do not die…!" A tear fell onto her face. He bent his head to kiss her, soft and tender. _"_For I… _I love you…"_

The Longclaws and Riala Goldentail fought like wild things, savage and ferocious, for what seemed like hours. Riala seemed to be getting the worst of it; her red-brown hide looked closer to dark red, wet as it was with blood. She'd landed a few blows of her own, but not enough—not near enough…!

The bloodrage had taken over her mind completely. Riala fought in a red-tinged fury, pure reaction, pure instinct. So she was unable to stop him when his scimitar curved under her roce, caught the string, _twisted—_

The cord snapped and the club flew into the brush. Riala howled rage, and a warcry ripped from her throat.

_"RIIIIILAAAAAAAAR!"_

She sprang for the wolverine, catching him by surprise. Inside the reach of his scimitar, _past _it, and her jaws clamped and locked on his throat as her dagger swiped wildly. Cut across his paw, and his scimitar dropped, and the two duelists fell to biting, clawing fury.

Then Kiern heard it. Forced out through a closed throat, barely audible above Riala's snarling: Three short growls.

_The signal…_

He heard Bloodmoon's hollow whisper as if through a fog. "The choice is upon you! Choose well!"

Kiern froze with the bone whistle at his lips. The Nightclaws stared at him, waiting for his order, the signal to attack, the signal to save their chief.

_Honor or duty?_

_ Your debt has been repaid threefold._

_ He is not worthy of your loyalty!_

So many voices, so many memories…

_You sacrifice your honor to your loyalty and duty._

_ They pity you. _I _pity you._

_ Your honor is not his._

His paw shook on the whistle.

_Why do you follow one who is proven to be dishonorable?_

_ When will you choose?_

_ There can be no turning back!_

But… he's all I have…

_You have the Nightclaws._

Astarte's voice, trembling in his mind.

_You have me…_

_ You must choose._

Before him, Riala's jaws tightened, and the Longclaws' breath came in ragged spurts.

_Choose._

The long white claws dug into the squirrel's back, into her sides, and snapped there, stained deep red.

_Choose!_

A strangled growl from the Longclaws' closed throat… and a second… and a third… the signal to intervene. The signal to fire.

_CHOOSE!_

The bone whistle dropped from Kiern's nerveless lips, unblown. Riala Goldentail's dagger stabbed into the Longclaws' side, sheathed in his ribs. And finally… finally, both lifelong combatants stilled, and moved no more.

Kiern walked forward as if through a dream. As the Nightclaws watched in silence, he knelt beside the wolverine and the goldentailed squirrel who'd hunted him all her life. He pried her paw from the dagger, slid it out of the Longclaws' chest, watched the red blood stream down.

"Your vengeance quest is over, Goldentail," Kiern said. "And you have died with honor, Nightdeath Longclaws…

He pulled the Longclaws' paws from the squirrel's back with a respectful silent reverence. The dagger pried the squirrel's jaws from the wolverine's ravaged throat. Kiern laid Riala Goldentail next to Nightdeath Longclaws, knelt silent between them both. "It is over."

"Rest in peace…"

At last he stood, regarded the Nightclaws. "…Find the captains. Tell the Nighthunt to retreat."

"We've sacrificed enough today…"

For the second time in her life, Riala drifted on a river of oblivion. And there—there, at long last… the gates of Dark Forest. The ever-inviting ebony gates, creaking open with the whispers of the dead and the tempting promise of peace.

And there. There, between the gates, stood her father. Smiling, gentle and loving.

"Father…"

But there was a sword in his paw. And—and he was not welcoming her in—he was barring her way!

"Father—I killed the Longclaws! I did it! You are avenged!"

His smile turned sad. "It is not your time, Ria."

"But—but Father… I…" A rattling sigh. "I'm ready to die… I am ready to rest… it's _over…"_

"I am sorry, Ria, my little Goldentail… but it is not. You still have a life to live. Malaya yet lives… she came here, but I sent her back as well. She needs you alive, Ria…"

"Father…" _He can't be turning me away… Doesn't he want me?!_

"And there are beasts in need that you will help. That wouldn't be aided otherwise."

"But…"

He smiled. "Your life is far from done, Riala Goldentail. Go. Back to the land of the living! Back to where you belong! Learn to live, Ria…"

The river reversed, and she was swept away from the ebony gates, away from her father. _"Father…!" _Straining for a final glimpse—and then all fell to white.

Blidning white… sunlight, firelight, far too bright! Riala's eyes squeezed shut, finally creaked open.

"Ri—Riala?"

A disbelieving whisper, and then the red form beside her swtood. "Ria! You're—you're awake!"

"Not… not so loud…"

"You're _alive!"_

Riala cracked the slightest of smiles. "Aye, Aya… as are you."

Malaya's face split into a wide grin. "You're alive! You're gonna be all right! _Malcan!" _She jumped up and ran to the doorway, limping a little. _"Malc! Ria's awake!"_

Riala shook her head, wincing at the pain even that slight movement brought, and closed her eyes. _Aye, I'm awake… and alive. Farewell, Father… until we meet again, for the last time…_


	19. Epilogue

Vengeance Quest: Epilogue

Seasons passed. Riala healed enough to walk, and the delighted Malaya announced that she and Malcan could then wed, since Riala could now attend the ceremony. She'd grown so much, Aya had… in spirit, in mind, in bearing.

And so had Malcan. No longer the spoiled little princeling, the death of his mother and the terror of battle and the fight for Malaya's life had tempered him, forged him anew into a fine young squirrel one might conceivably pictured as an appropriate replacement for Audric.

Audric doted on Malaya, a brilliant joy to chase away the grief of the loss of his wife and of Sandor. Aya began singing again, and learned new dances, lighting up the halls with her intense love of life, her vibrancy.

And Pilaris? He was just happy to have a new "songsinger". The otters spoiled him rotten, feeding the fieldfare all the candied chestnuts he could handle, laughing at his antics. Pilar'd be too fat to fly, soon!

Riala tried to relax, tried to enjoy castle life and adapt to living without the incessant tug of her vengeance quest. But more and more she found herself stalking the ramparts, staring northward, or racing the wind through the trees.

She felt so… empty… directionless… _purposeless. _The quest for vengeance had consumed her life, and now it was gone, and Riala had… nothing.

Malaya found her on the ramparts one sunset, staring to the northern horizon, roce and dagger at her side. They stood in silence as the sun sank down.

"You're gonna leave, aren't ya…" More of a statement than a question, soft and sad.

"…aye."

A sigh. "We knew it'd happen… You're not happy here. Ya've always gotta be movin'… fightin'…"

Riala nodded slightly. "It would seem so."

"…and find a purpose other'n hate?"

A long silence from the squirrel. "Aye…"

Malaya engulfed her in a tight hug. "I'm gonna miss ya…!"

Riala smiled, sad and longing. One scarred paw stroked the squirrelmaid's ears. "I'll visit."

"Ya'd better!" Aya said fiercely, face buried in Riala's shoulder. "Or I'll send Pilar after ya to annoy ya to death!"

"Oh no, not that!" Mock horror coursed over the scarred face. "Anything but that!"

Malaya giggled, but it soon faded to solemnity. "Take care of yourself, 'kay?"

"…I'll try."

As the sun's dying rays whispered over the cloud-strewn sky, a squirrelmaid watched the silent form of a warrior squirrel walk into the forests of Southsward. As Riala reached the treeline, she paused and turned for a last long look, a final wave.

Malaya's paw raised in return, slow at first, but waving more and more furiously until the warrior squirrel was gone from sight.

"Farewell, Riala Goldentail…" Malaya whispered. "Good luck…"

In another land, far from the sunny shores of Southsward, past the green forests of Mossflower, beyond the peaceful sandstone walls of Redwall Abbey, the earth dove into sunset-red canyons carved by a whole network of rivers. Precarious trails beckoned those brave enough to venture to the canyon floors; caves riddled the rock walls. Waterfalls cascaded down, carving strange new shapes in the stone. A place of mystery, of grand isolation, of water and wind and shadow and sun.

Kiern stood at the edge of the precipice, staring across and down. The Nighthunt camped behind him, black tents dotting the pitted landscape like points of living shadow pierced only by the dying light of the setting sun and the pinpoints of campfires. A black-cloaked Nightclaw stood behind him, seemingly relaxed, but his gaze probed every shadow for a threat to his chief.

Pawsteps sounded behind him, soft and sure but slightly off rhythm, limping. Out of the corner of his eye, Kiern saw the Nightclaw straighten and salute. "Captain Astarte," he said, and turned to face her.

She saluted, though somehow it didn't carry the subordinance of a lower beast to her superior—somehow it carried the aspect of familiarity. "Aren't ya going to come inside, chief? It's getting late… and you're not in the safest spot in the camp, right now."

He looked at her for a long moment. _Was it a bad idea to promote her to captain of the Nightclaws? _Although… nobeast could fault her on zealousness or loyalty. A silent laugh. _Who knew? Me as leader of the Nighthunt, and Astarte as my guardcaptain… utterly insane…_

"Have the recruiters returned yet?"

A pause. She shook her head. "Not yet. They should be back any time now."

Kiern drew a deep breath. The Nighthunt's numbers had been cut severely by that ill-fated battle at Southsward. He'd scrambled to find replacements, traveling the entire length of the coast, almost all the way to the cold Northlands—and then cutting west, through Mossflower and surrounding lands, until he'd come here. To this impasse… this land of canyons and valleys. But at least he'd managed to find new captains, good ones. And the horde had accepted him as leader without much fuss—had almost forced him into the position, despite his feeble protests. _It's as if I allowed the Longclaws to die so that I could take power…_

"Kiern." Astarte's voice, gentle and firm at the same time, and she placed a paw on his shoulder.

He tensed, and then sighed. "You're right… we should retire for the night."

A nod. "Let's go then…"

Kiern watched her limp off towards his tent. _And she's changed since the battle too. _She'd won the fight with the otter captain, but not by much… it had left her with a permanent limp that she'd had to learn to fight with. Seduction became more difficult, which was a blow to her pride—but otherwise didn't matter much. Now that she'd "won" Kiern, she'd lost interest in otherbeasts. Captain of the guard and mate to the chief, it seemed, was power enough for Astarte.

The chief of the Nighthunt took a long last look at the sunset over the canyon. _Well… that's a challenge to be surmounted tomorrow… _A slow intake of crisp air. Kiern straightened his shoulders, turned about, and followed Astarte into his tent.

------

_Want more of Riala Goldentail and the others? Visit Chains of Hate, a site all about Riala. Since , for some reason, will not let me include a URL , you'll have to go to my user page here at , click on the "my homepage" link, then click on the "my sites" link, and then on "chains of hate". Tedious and idiotic, I know, but that's for you...  
_


	20. Author's Thoughts on Vengeance Quest

Author's Thoughts Upon Completing Vengeance Quest 

_Warning: There may be some spoilers. And this may be rather boring. But I want to write it. So nyah. :P_

It's amazing how my style has evolved over time. Vengeance Quest is a record of my writing progress throughout high school - from 8th grade to just before my freshman year of college (And if you want a record starting in 6th grade... visit Chains of Hate and check out the original Vengeance Quest... Warning: It's horrible). It's been _quite_ the journey! I read over VQ and realize how much I've changed, both in my ideals, my writing style, and my maturity.

I've explored quite a few themes, as well. The main theme underlying Vengeance Quest, if you couldn't tell, was the effect hatred can have on a person, how it can take over your life. But other themes appeared, too, as the story progressed--things I didn't realize until I'd almost finished the story. The effect love can have, as evidenced by Malaya's affect on Riala, for instance. And in the subplot centering around Kiern, there's a lot of struggling about honor vs. duty, the nature of honor, and choosing between beliefs and society. Plus throughout the story, more in Kiern's but also in Riala's plot, there's a minor underlying theme about seeing people as they truly are, seeing past the mask...

The subplot with Kiern and the horde was originally just an experiment, a foray into the minds of the "bad guys", an attempt to humanize the "villains". But Nightdeath stayed as villainous and vile as before... if anything, he became _more_ villainous! And somehow that seemed ... right. I don't know. And my "experiment" grew into much, much more--I became fascinated with the horde, I fell in love with Kiern and Stormsong and Skyfire and Astarte. I almost didn't want to go back to Riala and Malaya!

Will there be future stories with Riala, Kiern, and company? I hope so. Riala still has a whole life to live, after all... there's a lot of stories in her life left untold. I'd like to flesh out the story told partially in "Soulfire", with her and Aeloein... and I have a plan for her redemption. And Kiern--his story has barely begun! There's the question of his sister, after all, and where he came from, and his future leading the horde. And there's always Stormsong's past, too, that might be interesting to write.

But who's to say if those'll ever get written...? I have a lot of other stories I want to tell, after all, outside the world of Redwall.

Well, that's enough of this over-long discourse. I hope you enjoy reading Vengeance Quest as much as I did writing it, and thanks for joining me on this long and wild ride!


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